


One Foot in Sea and One on Shore

by songofwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Much Ado About Nothing AU, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare-Westeros fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2020-10-28 07:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofwinter/pseuds/songofwinter
Summary: King Robert Baratheon brings his court to the estate of his childhood friend Eddard Stark, eager to forge a betrothal between his eldest son and Sansa Stark. While Sansa is enchanted at the prospect of marrying Prince Joffrey, her cousin Brienne of Tarth dreads the arrival of the queen’s family—most of all, Jaime Lannister.As Brienne braces herself to endure the occasion, the visit brings more than she could have anticipated when Sansa decides to conspire with Tyrion Lannister to bring her cousin and Jaime together. And when Sansa's own courtship with the prince goes sour, Brienne finds herself leading a battle to restore Sansa's honor, finding an unlikely ally—and perhaps more—in Jaime.A Much Ado About Nothing AU.





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't that her training was flaunted at Winterfell. 

But it was nevertheless tolerated, particularly under the eye of Lord Stark. His younger daughter, Arya, had somehow gotten her hands on a sword and refused to be parted with it or explain its origins. With how fiercely she guarded both the sword and the secret, Brienne suspected that the girl’s favorite cousin, Jon Snow, had gifted it to her during one of his visits to Winterfell. Lord Stark had neither the heart nor the will to separate her from the blade, and if she insisted on training with it, she ought to have someone teach her properly before she poked a poor servant’s eye out. Or so Lord Stark had explained it to Brienne.

And she didn’t mind it, training with Arya. Brienne even came to enjoy it. The girl was hungry to learn, and it was a welcome change to have someone take her seriously, rather than sneer and ask what business she had with a sword at all.

The morning had flown by quickly in the yard, and already the sun was beginning to break through the mists. Arya pushed forward with a renewed aggression, and the girl’s sweat-soaked brow furrowed as Brienne parried her blows.

“You don’t need to come on so fiercely right away,” Brienne told her, just as her own master-at-arms had once instructed. “You’re going to be much smaller and not as strong as most of your opponents.”

Arya opened her mouth to protest, but Brienne cut her off.

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she continued. “They’ll underestimate you. But you’re quick, and they’re not used to fighting someone your size. Or a girl, for that matter.”

Arya considered the advice for a moment. “So I should… what, just keep dodging?”

“At first,” Brienne said. “You’re excellent at dodging, staying out of reach. And after a while, they’re not just going to be frustrated. They’re going to be tired. And _that _is when you start trying to land blows.”

Arya nodded, her face as serious as her father’s for a moment, as it always was whenever she tried absorbing some new lesson.

“Okay,” she said after a beat. “I’m ready to try again.”

But before she could so much as raise her sword, Sansa’s familiar voice came ringing through the gardens.

“Arya! Arya!” she called out, stopping short as she came across her sister and cousin. “Oh, and Brienne! All the better.”

“We’re _busy_,” Arya hissed, but Brienne shook her head.

“A moment,” she told the younger Stark girl, used to playing peacemaker between the two sisters. “Sansa, has something happened?”

“You mustn’t have forgotten,” Sansa said, her eyes widening, but she could hardly keep her excitement hidden. “The messenger said that the Baratheons are only a day’s ride away!”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Why should I care?”

“Must you be so impossible?” Sansa asked with exasperation. “The _king _is coming to Winterfell, and he’s bringing the royal family.”

“Well, they’re not here yet, and we’re in the middle of training,” Arya protested.

The sisters went on arguing, and Brienne knew she should step in and say something, but in all honestly, she _had _forgotten—not that the royal family would be visiting, of course, but it seemed impossible that they would be arriving so soon. They must have made better time than expected on the road.

_Only a day’s ride away. _Brienne already felt a pit in her stomach. A Baratheon visit meant a Lannister visit, although it was just one, Jaime Lannister, who truly came to mind_._ She could already picture his mocking smile, much as she wished the image didn’t conjure in her mind so easily.

“Brienne, tell her!” Sansa’s voice, tinged with desperation now, broke her out of her reverie. “She can’t present herself before the king and queen looking like this.” Arya, who was indeed covered in dirt with her hair in tangles, glared at her sister.

“Arya, that’s enough for today,” Brienne said, the conversation routine enough to take control of even with her mind elsewhere.

Arya looked betrayed. “But—”

“We’ve reached a good stopping point for today,” Brienne said. “We’ll pick up where we left off next time, and go for a bit longer if you’d like. You know that your mother will be displeased if you’re not ready to receive the royal family tomorrow.”

She didn’t like cutting the training short herself, but Sansa was right. And much as Arya couldn’t understand it, Brienne knew that tomorrow was a day that Sansa had long dreamed of.

She understood Sansa better than Arya would have expected, in fact. True, she would not have taken any joy in picking out a dress for the occasion, or presenting herself to the court—quite the opposite. But when she had been Sansa’s age, she had her own dreams of dancing with the king’s handsome brother, Lord Renly, though she tried not to dwell on that now.

Arya walked away, muttering something under her breath about how she didn’t need the whole night to be ready for tomorrow, but Sansa remained, looking pleased.

“You know I can’t understand why you and Arya prefer to spend so much time with those swords,” Sansa shook her head. “But I can at least trust you to be _sensible._ Do come with me, I’ve three dresses I might wear tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’ll look lovely in any of them,” Brienne said, hoping to avoid the task if she could. Truthfully, she didn’t see how her thoughts on the matter carried much value. “Although perhaps your mother would give you a better opinion.”

“She’s too busy directing the servants about,” Sansa said. “Besides, you don’t have to like dresses yourself to know which would suit me best. I can help you find something as well,” she offered.

Brienne supposed it would be wise to take Sansa’s offer. She _would _need to look presentable, much as she dreaded fitting into one of the dresses Lady Stark had ordered made for her, which was an affair in itself despite the tailor’s best work.

“I suppose,” she sighed as Sansa led her off to her chambers.

* * *

Within an hour, Sansa was twirling before the mirror in a sky blue dress. The elder Stark daughter looked even more radiant than usual in her elation, and the silken fabric of the dress brought out both the blue of her eyes and the red in her auburn hair.

“This is the one,” Sansa announced, beaming. “Help me unlace it and we can decide on yours.”

Much as Brienne dreaded the next day, she tried to smile for Sansa. Brienne had come to see the girl as a younger sister, every bit as idealistic and romantic as she had been at that tender age. Sansa had the fortune of being beautiful enough that her dreams would one day become reality, and for that Brienne was grateful. She had built up her own armor against the cruel jests she had endured all her life, but the old wounds still hurt sometimes, and occasionally the right phrase would land another bruise. But it was no matter. Her flights of courtship and marriage had died long ago, and even then, those had just been girlish fantasies.

Brienne went about helping her without a word, focused on unraveling the intricate ribbonwork on the back of the dress.

“Aren’t you at least a little excited?” Sansa suddenly asked, seemingly disappointed in Brienne’s lack of enthusiasm.

“It is a great honor to host the royal family,” Brienne said, the words coming easily enough as she kept her eyes fixed on the ribbons.

“I wasn’t talking about honor,” Sansa sighed. “There will be a masked ball, and singers, and everything will just be so much less dull than it usually is around here.”

Sansa shook her head when Brienne didn’t respond. “Lord Jaime will be there,” she said finally, craning her head around to look at Brienne.

Brienne stopped midway through tugging a ribbon undone, and Sansa seemed delighted to finally have provoked even that small response.

“See, it will be fun!” Sansa insisted.

“I plan to spend as little time as possible with Jaime Lannister,” Brienne said, going back to pulling at the ribbon—perhaps with a bit more force than necessary, but Sansa didn’t seem to notice. “I’m not sure why you would suggest that as an encouragement.”

“You’ll have a better sparring partner than Arya,” Sansa said. “Although I suppose it’s a shame, with his injury . . . Do you think he still fights the same? I’ve heard talk that no man dares to stand against him, even with his left.”

_Sparring partner. _Brienne scarcely heard anything after that, looking down as she felt her face growing warm. During the king’s last visit, a shorter one and a smaller affair, she had found herself the main subject of gossip and laughter in Winterfell, the winter town, and probably even beyond there when she had been caught rolling in the grass with Lord Jaime, trying to pin him to the ground after they had both knocked each other’s swords astray. They had resorted to grappling as they groped about for the blades, neither willing to accept defeat, when King Robert, Lord Stark, and what felt like all of their men had come across them as they rode out for a hunt.

As accustomed as she had grown to withstanding laughter and cruel remarks spoken behind her back, she knew men had called her cruder names than Brienne the Beauty for that incident. Even Arya had looked embarrassed for her when she’d heard what had happened.

That had all been before Lord Jaime’s injury, of course. She had only heard talk of it, the work of a group of outlaws who called themselves the Brave Companions, but if it were true . . .

“Brienne?” Sansa’s insistent voice pulled her out of her head.

“Yes, cousin?”

“Did you hear a word of what I just said?” Sansa asked. She had stepped out of the blue gown by now and had begun pulling her simpler wear back over her smallclothes.

Brienne tried to form a response, but Sansa gave a dismissive wave with her hand.

“It was nothing, Brienne. Now, let’s see what I can find for you.”

The rest of the day slipped by as quickly as the morning in the training yard, but in a stranger, hazy way. When she at last retired to her chamber she cherished the silence, trying not to think of what lie ahead.

* * *

_In her dreams that night she was back with Lord Jaime, sparring by the river and pressing his body against the earth, demanding that he yield. _

_It had rained the night before, and the ground was still saturated, the current swelling and babbling beside them. As it had happened, the soft ground, the rushing water, and the skirmish had been more than enough to silence the sound of hooves against the earth until it was far too late, and only King Robert’s booming laughter would finally alert them to their audience. But she did not dream of that._

_Instead, the dream ended with Jaime pinned beneath her, pausing in his grappling for a moment to look upon her face. A smile played at the edge of his lips and his eyes gleamed with something she could not name, but it jolted her harder than any blow from his sword. For a long moment, the night went quiet save for their heavy breathing. But he never did yield, and the dance went on. _


	2. Chapter 2

The court arrived in a flurry of golden lions on red and black stags on gold, the sigils of Baratheon and Lannister intermingling on the royal family’s banners.

As a noble lady herself, Brienne stood near her cousins to receive the court, though she would sooner hide herself as far from their visitors as possible if she had any say in the matter. 

King Robert was not one for formalities, and Lord Stark had barely greeted him before the king pulled him into an embrace that looked like it could crack bones. Ned’s eyes widened at the force of it for a moment, but his expression quickly transformed, a rare smile brightening his usually sullen face. 

“Gods, Ned, it’s been too long,” Robert said, his voice resounding throughout the courtyard. Brienne held back a sigh. _Not long enough._

The king lowered his voice somewhat. “We have much to talk about,” Brienne nevertheless heard him say. “I would have a moment to speak with you alone, once all of this is done.”

“Of course, your grace,” Ned said. “We have all the time you like. My family extends our hospitality for as long as it would please you.” 

Robert went on to envelop Catelyn in a marginally less forceful hug next, and Brienne was at least spared of that when it came to be her turn to greet the king. By then the courtyard had dissolved into a cheerful disarray as the households intermingled—thankfully, for Robert clapped her on the shoulder and seemed to find great joy in declaring her “near as tall as me, this one,” as if it were newly discovered. But nothing reminded her so much of her outlandish presence as did Cersei Lannister.

The queen looked as beautiful as ever as she passed through the crowd, golden hair falling in waves around her slender form. She must have noticed Brienne at some point, for though she spared not a glance in her direction, Brienne could feel the woman’s contempt for her exuding as she walked by.

Brienne did not know what she could have done to make the queen hate her so. But if Cersei Lannister kept up this way, she would at least not have to concern herself with empty courtesies and thinly veiled insults. She had endured enough of those throughout her life, and they came naturally to the queen.

She had not yet seen Lord Jaime, but knew that he must be nearby; he was seldom far from his twin’s side. Her eyes combed through the entourage bustling around Cersei, who had by now approached Sansa with a practiced smile, but found no sign of him. 

“Best not stare at my sister for too long,” a voice spoke up behind her. “She is sweet to look upon, but enamored enough with herself without another gazing after her.”

She knew the voice all too well.

“Lord Jaime,” she said curtly as she turned around, although silently she cursed herself for allowing him to catch her unaware.

“The wench of Tarth,” he replied, a maddening smile already forming on his lips.

“I was looking after my cousin, if it concerns you so,” Brienne bristled. “Before you determined to interrupt me.”

Despite Jaime’s arrogant countenance and her irritation, she could not help but notice something was changed amid the old haughtiness she expected from him—his smile did not reach his eyes, and he carried himself in such a way that he seemed almost tired. She tried to keep her eyes on his, but unwittingly, they flickered briefly to the gilded hand that had replaced his right. _So there it was. _It had only been a fraction of a second, but he had noticed, raising an eyebrow at her as her eyes darted back to meet his. 

She should have been prepared for the sight, but she had not been truly able to envision the reality of it. Jaime, untouchable and golden and always with a roguish grin. And now, short a sword hand. Reprehensible as he was, she would not have wished his injury upon anyone, least of all someone who wielded a sword as naturally as if it were an extension of his own arm. Her staring must only be salt in the wound, and for once, she found herself wanting to spare him the pain. 

“Forgive me,” she mumbled. “I meant—” 

“Spare me your apologies, wench,” he said. “Everyone wants a look these days, and your sympathy will not sprout me a new hand.”

She regretted the kindness already.

“A courtesy,” she said. “You will do the same and call me by my name.”

“That sounds more like the wench I know,” Jaime said with a chuckle. “Why, with a sword in your hand, it would be as if no time had passed at all.”

With a sword in her hand, she could convince most any other man not to speak to her in such a way—at least not to her face. But her sword was tucked away in her chambers, as useless to her there as the dress Sansa had chosen for her, and she had yet to meet another man like Jaime Lannister.

Before she could bite back a retort, she found herself interrupted.

“Jaime, must you torment the lady?” Tyrion Lannister said as he wandered to his brother’s side.

“Do you assume so ill of me as well, brother?” Jaime said, feigning offense. “And Brienne so incapable? The lady torments me. I was only praising her dancing.”

“Is that so?” Tyrion asked. “Forgive me for interrupting, then. Lady Brienne, it is of course an honor to see you again.”

“And you, my lord,” she said stiffly. “You interrupted nothing. I was about to be on my way.”

There was truth to it, even if it had been newly decided; these large gatherings had always made her wary. As a child at Evenfall Hall, such an event would have brought her to her father’s solar the evening before, begging him not to make her wear a dress and smile and curtsy while all of their noble guests undoubtedly laughed at the cruel parody of a lady the moment she was out of earshot. Only Renly had shown her any mercy then, but it had been years now since she had seen him. Now he spent his days at Storm’s End, a proper wife by his side—and she was another lady from the Stormlands. He was never to be hers, but somehow, that had made it sting all the more at the time. 

Without a word, she turned and walked nowhere in particular, her feet hitting hard against the ground.

She nearly knocked another man over as she made her way across the courtyard, not having seen him at all until he suddenly bumped against her with a grunt. He was a good head shorter than her and slight of build, and it was a wonder that she hadn’t completely knocked him over. 

“Apologies, my lord,” she mumbled as she reached out to steady the man by his shoulder. She could tell from the way he dressed that he was noble, but could not place a name to his face.

“Oh, it is I who should apologize,” the man said with a small smile. “I should have seen you.”

He made no move to continue on his way, and Brienne was ready to ask what it was that he wanted from her when he at last spoke again.

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” he offered. “The king’s advisor. And you must be Lady Brienne of Tarth, niece to Lady Catelyn.”

_Lord Baelish? _It was a name that she knew, but not a face she had expected to see at Winterfell. And_ an_ advisor to the king, Brienne might have corrected him, more concerned with the royal treasury than any other matters of state. She recalled that Lady Catelyn knew Lord Baelish well from her childhood at Riverrun, but she would not have expected him to make the journey north to Winterfell.

“You are correct, my lord,” Brienne said, though she was more interested in what she could see over Lord Baelish’s head, where Ned followed his friend—no, Brienne reminded herself, his king—away from the crowd.

Petyr Baelish noticed her wandering gaze and looked over his shoulder, turning back to her with a smile.

“Much to talk about, indeed,” Baelish said with a wry grin. “Our king is eager to secure what he came here for, I see.”

“And what is that?” Brienne asked, eyeing him with suspicion. There was something in his grins and the glint of his eyes that she already disliked.

“Oh, I shouldn’t spoil these things,” Lord Baelish said pleasantly. “Nothing to worry yourself over, my lady. On the contrary, this should be an exciting occasion for us all.”

* * *

Brienne’s trials did not end in Winterfell’s courtyard, and she found herself seated in an uncomfortably visible position at the table at the welcoming feast that followed. It was Lady Catelyn’s doing, she knew, and she did her best not to harbor any bitterness toward her over it; Catelyn was a good woman, and all she did was only in what she saw as the best interest of Brienne and her poor father. Had it not been for her, Brienne would likely still be at Evenfall Hall, her mere presence reminding Lord Selwyn of the isle’s uncertain future. With an heir as unmarriageable as Brienne, he may as well have no heir at all.

Brienne had never been of much help to him in that regard; she had seen that every match he had arranged for her was broken. But much as it pained her to disappoint her father, she could not bear the thought of living the rest of her days with a man who insisted she stop playing with swords and take up her wifely duties, or bit back his distaste for her homely face for the sake of her inheritance.

And yet, Brienne knew that both her father and Lady Catelyn hoped she would somehow have better fortune finding a husband at Winterfell, though she did not understand what had given them the notion. 

Brienne glanced about the Great Hall, generally finding herself alone in her discomfort. Robert roared with laughter beside Ned, who in turn shed some of his usual stern composure in the presence of his old friend. And Arya, despite her loudly declared resentment for the festivities, had settled into the motions of the occasion for the time being. Unlike Brienne, the girl could at least be made to look like a noble lady, no matter how temporarily.

Off to the corner, a handsome, sandy-haired singer who had accompanied the court played the harp and crooned a ballad about Florian and Jonquil. _Sansa must love that._

Sansa, of course, was made of pure joy the whole day. Prince Joffrey had never made the journey north until now, but had effectively charmed Sansa in the courtyard. Brienne had not seen her cousin leave the prince's side since then, save for when her mother whisked her away sometime before the feast. 

Brienne thought to ask Sansa what her mother had to say that was so urgent, but that would have to wait until later; for the time being, Sansa appeared enthralled with whatever Joffrey was recounting from his seat beside her, gasping as the prince made some sort of stabbing motion with his knife—reenacting some great deed of his, surely. Aside from himself, Brienne could not help but notice that the only thing the prince seemed to find interesting in Winterfell was Sansa’s bodice.

As she scanned the room, Brienne was surprised to see that Jaime perhaps looked the closest to sharing in her misery; if she had sensed cracks in his golden exterior earlier on in the courtyard, the facade was close to tarnished by now. 

As expected, he was near his sister. But more curiously, neither of the twins seemed eager to acknowledge this proximity; not so much as a glance passed between them, and Jaime, in fact, seemed determined to stare at the table, barely touching the first course that had been placed before him. Even the way he spoke of his sister in the courtyard had been odd, Brienne recalled, however brief it may have been.

Brienne had little time to dwell on his strange behavior before, for the second time that day, she found herself in the company of Tyrion Lannister.

“May I join you, my lady?” he asked, though he was already seating himself beside her.

Brienne had never exchanged many words with Jaime’s younger brother, but nevertheless found an odd sense of relief in his presence—perhaps it was enough simply to know that there was another who had not been blessed with the beauty and graces that everyone else in the Great Hall seemed to command so naturally. She imagined he must feel the same way toward her, with the way he sought out her company. She gave a short nod.

“I do hope you were not too hard on my brother earlier,” Tyrion said with a rueful grin as he sat down. “Usually I would say that it is only healthy for him to endure the occasional slight, but I am afraid he is not well at all as of late.”

“He has suffered a difficult loss,” Brienne said. She felt no desire to dwell on sympathies for Jaime, but part of her hoped that Tyrion might shed some light on his brother’s current disposition.

“Yes,” Tyrion said. “Truthfully, he has scarcely been himself since that misfortune. But I’m sure you can imagine the weight of that better than I, as a swordsman yourself.”

Swords_man. _He did not mean it unkindly, but Brienne held back a wince nevertheless. 

“I will not pretend to understand much of Lord Jaime,” she said, though the suggestion did tug at her stomach. 

Tyrion barely suppressed a smile. “I will not argue with you, Lady Brienne. But tell me, when was it that you danced with my brother?”

“Danced?” Brienne blinked. “I have done no such thing.”

“Oh?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “He said you were a skillful dancer. I assumed he must have danced with you to know.”

_Jaime’s sort of dancing_, she realized. Did Tyrion as well? She would not play into such games with either of them, even when Jaime wasn’t there to observe it._ But what a dancing partner he had been_. She was stronger than him, but his blows came swift and relentless, and she had never fought someone who moved with such a deadly grace. They may have danced for hours, for all she could say, steel clanging against steel in the cool night air.

She looked away from Tyrion, determined to take a sudden interest in cutting the mutton that had been placed before her. 

“I have found it’s best to disregard such comments from him,” she said.

* * *

Supping with Tyrion left her with no more insight than she had hoped for, but it had not been the most dreadful way the evening could have passed. As the feast died down and household members and guests alike returned to their chambers, weary from travel and wine, Brienne moved to make her own retreat from the Great Hall. 

As she turned the corner toward her own chamber, she spied Sansa—or rather, Sansa spied her, practically dashing over to Brienne as quickly as her dress would allow. 

“Brienne!” Sansa exclaimed. “I was hoping to find you!”

“What is it, cousin?” Brienne asked. She had been hoping to find Sansa herself, but found the girl's burst of renewed excitement somewhat startling. 

“Oh, I’m being wicked,” Sansa giggled. “Mother says I’m not to talk of it yet, but I must!” 

“Sansa, what’s happened?”Brienne asked, too absorbed now to remind Sansa that she should perhaps heed her mother’s advice.

Sansa gripped Brienne’s arm hard enough that she could feel the girl’s nails through the fabric of her dress. 

“I’m to marry Prince Joffrey,” she said.

Brienne’s eyes widened. “Cousin-”

“We are not betrothed yet,” Sansa went on. “But the king has proposed the match to father. Mother told me before the feast. You can’t imagine how hard it has been for me to sit here this whole time as if it were any other supper!”

“Sansa,” Brienne said slowly, trying to regain her composure. “This is...” _A horrid idea? _Her familiarity with the prince was admittedly limited, but the arrangement seemed, at the very least... hasty. But what was there to say to her cousin, who basked in exhilaration at the mere thought of marrying the prince? She pictured Sansa standing alongside Joffrey with his hungry eyes, Queen Cersei nearby and watching her closely with her false smile. The thought made her stomach lurch. 

Sansa sensed Brienne’s hesitation, and the smile fell from her face for what was likely the first time that day.

“Aren’t you happy for me?” she asked. “I would be Joffrey’s queen someday.”

“I… of course I am happy for you, cousin,” Brienne said. “I only… surely, your father must approve first?”

“He’ll say yes,” Sansa said. “He has to. Robert is the one who proposed the match—how can father say no to the _king?_”

“Perhaps it is so,” Brienne said. “I just...” she bit her lip. 

“What is it?” Sansa asked.

“You know I only want what is best for you.”

“This _is _what’s best for me, cousin!” Sansa said, taking Brienne’s hands in hers. “Marriage isn’t so terrible as you think it is. You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 took a bit longer to write than I'd hoped, but here it is! Thanks to much to everyone who read, commented, and left kudos. I had been wanting to write this story for a long time but was quite nervous about posting it, so to see that people enjoyed the first chapter was lovely. <3
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://serjaimelannister.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!


	3. Chapter 3

“Robert will get his way with Sansa and Joff in the end,” Tyrion declared, seated across from Jaime in one of the chambers the Starks had set aside for their guests. “A pity for Lady Sansa. And for our dear father—you know he would have rather offered you as a match.”

Jaime snorted. “I suppose I have one thing I can thank Robert for, then.” Tyrion was right; even before Robert had formally proposed the match, his intentions had been a poorly kept secret among the court. It was only a matter of time now before Ned Stark agreed to the betrothal, and Sansa already needed no convincing, if the way she had mooned over Joffrey throughout the welcoming feast was any indication. And as for Lord Tywin’s ambitions, those were nothing new.

“Why so opposed?” Tyrion asked. “Any man would be lucky to call Sansa his bride—it is her misfortune that the man had to be Joffrey. But even you cannot deny that she is as beautiful as she is graceful.”

“A pretty girl,” he shrugged. “I know little about her other than that, and I can’t say I’m much interested in learning more.”

“I would be offended on the lady’s behalf if I didn’t know you as well as I do,” Tyrion said. “But you’ve managed to stay unmarried this long despite father’s frustrations, so I can’t imagine any woman could sway you. Truthfully, I’m not sure what has Cersei acting as though you’ve betrayed her as of late.”

_I lost a hand_, Jaime thought bitterly. _That is what it all comes down to, in the end_. It was a slight to her in itself that he had taken to keeping his hair shorter and let his beard grow out. But to be Cersei’s true reflection he needed to be golden and whole, and he could never fix that now—the gilded hand felt like more of a mockery of the fact with each passing day. There were other matters that made it all the worse, but that was nothing he wished to discuss with Tyrion. Much as Jaime loved him, Tyrion could never understand any matter related to Cersei.

“Perhaps you’ve had too much wine, sweet brother,” Jaime said instead, a hint of venom tainting his voice. “Your tongue grows loose.”

Tyrion pushed the near-empty bottle toward Jaime. “Here, finish it for me then. And try to be less miserable at the ball tonight.”

Jaime grimaced at the reminder of the evening’s festivities. Just the thing to lift his spirits.

“Perhaps I have chosen my words unwisely,” Tyrion sighed. “Come, Jaime, it won’t be as bad as you fear. And it is a masquerade, after all. Hide behind a mask for the night if all else fails.”

“A poor disguise,” Jaime said. He tapped at his golden hand with his left. “I doubt I’ll have much luck concealing this.”

“Easier to hide than being a dwarf,” Tyrion reminded him. “Besides, there are worse impediments to dancing, and you are still a Lannister. Maybe even our sweet sister will lower herself to dance with a cripple.”

Jaime poured the remainder of the wine into his cup, imagining the disgust on Cersei’s face should he wrap the cold gilded hand around her waist. But he would need to make himself sociable at the ball somehow, and Tyrion was right that he would have no lack of dancing partners, golden hand and all.

Truth be told, he found himself preferring the company of Brienne of Tarth, much as he loathed to admit it—nor could he understand it. _A testament to the drabness of this place_, he thought. He tried to imagine the wench dancing—_truly_ dancing, as noble ladies did—but he could picture Brienne twirling about in a dress no more than he could envision Cersei giving up wine.

The wench had been as impossible as ever when he approached her in the courtyard, of course, already suspicious and guarded at the mere sound of his voice. _And what had he ever done to her?_ She at least had not kept up with false pleasantries for long when she had noticed his hand. Though a lady of the Stormlands, she fit into the North seamlessly with her stern demeanor.

He thought that not only Brienne, but the Northerners in general would be too dour for the evening’s festivities, but Lord Stark had married a southerner. Jaime suspected that Lady Catelyn had been the one to talk him into the masquerade ball, probably with prodding from their elder daughter. He was in no mood for it, but supposed he would have to go masked himself. With everyone else wearing the damned things, he was more likely to stand out without one.

“Jaime,” Tyrion broke their silence after a moment of hesitation, “I know you don’t wish to dwell on these things, but this could even be good for you, if you’ll give it a chance. There are plenty of eligible ladies, and I know you don’t care for father’s latest ambitions regarding you and Margaery Tyrell—”

“You do remember what I said just a moment ago about watching your tongue?” Jaime cut him off, growing tired of this conversation. Cersei was a sore spot, as was the Tyrell girl. He had no doubts that his father would continue to push for that match relentlessly when he returned to King’s Landing. If the trip North paid him one favor, it came in the form of a brief reprieve from any of that business—or so he had hoped. He appeared to be wrong about that as well.

Tyrion sighed. “You don’t have to marry any of them tonight. I only meant to say that it could be a way to take your mind off of things. You could use the distraction.”

Jaime must have looked unconvinced, for Tyrion gave a long sigh.

“Will you trust me on this matter, just for once?” he asked.

Jaime didn’t answer, choosing to drain the remainder of the wine instead.

* * *

Evening came, and there was a barrage of ladies to dance with, as Tyrion predicted.

Most of them he could not place—there was a maid who must have been a companion to Sansa Stark, though even without the mask, he was not sure he would have been able to recognize her by name. At one point he danced with Lady Sansa herself, from the looks of the long auburn hair that fell down the girl’s shoulders, and the pleasant way that she remarked how he danced well. Even Lady Catelyn took a dance with him at one point, if he was not mistaken, and several other ladies he could not name—none with golden hair, though.

He did spy those golden tresses at one point as the evening began, dancing with a man who, given his height, could only be Robert. Propriety had demanded as much as that, but since then they seemed determined to act as if the other did not exist. Jaime thought he spied Cersei engaging even stiff Lord Stark in a dance rather than acknowledge Robert again, though he was sure that only their masks hid the distaste for their dancing partners on their faces. At one point that would have made Jaime laugh. _And yet, one dance is still more regard than Cersei has paid me this evening_, he realized, the thought stinging more than he cared to admit. He wondered what she would say if he approached her for a dance, but found his thoughts instead drifting to Brienne.

Curiously, there had been no sign of the wench. She would be even more unmistakable than he, mask and all; save for Robert and an enormous stableboy who served the Starks, he could think of no one at Winterfell who was taller than her. But he doubted the stableboy was to make an appearance, and Robert had not worn a dress, no matter how much mead he had consumed before the occasion.

As the music changed and people hurried about for a new partner, Jaime needed to tilt his head upwards to regard his new acquaintance. It puzzled him, for a moment. Perhaps the stableboy had made it to the ball after all? The North could be an odd place in general. He remembered the lad as more of a lumbering thing than this figure, though.

“A dance, my lord?” the figure asked gruffly, and it was only then that Jaime noticed the straw-like hair peeking out from behind the mask. _It was the wench!_ Of course she had thought to use the disguise to her advantage in that way. He barely held back a laugh.

“A dance, yes,” he sighed instead. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a truly worthy dancing partner.”

“You speak as though you are quite a dancer yourself,” Brienne said.

“Men have said as much of me,” he said. “I am more partial to the sparring sort of dancing than the type this evening calls for, but I'll satisfy whichever would please you.” He offered his arm.

“Have you sparred with Lord Jaime, then?” she asked, but did not move to meet his gesture.

_Surely she jests,_ he told himself. _She must know who I am, mask and all_.

“Many times,” he answered, deciding he would go along with it regardless. “And you,_ my lord?_”

“Not I,” Brienne answered. “Nor would I seek to do so, with what I have heard of him.”

“Why, my la—my lord, you do not strike me as one to back down from a challenge,” Jaime said.

“Oh, I know he is very skilled,” Brienne answered. “A better swordsman than any man has known, surely. But that is not the reason I’ve avoided him. It’s that there is little to him beyond that.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jaime asked, suddenly annoyed.

“He knows how to parry and lunge and land a blow,” Brienne said. “But he thinks that is all he needs to know about anything. He calls it dancing and wooing, but he cares nothing for his sparring partner’s honor. I would not recommend seeking him out, no matter how thrilling a dance you are after.”

“Tell me, if you have never sparred with him before, how do you know all of this?” Jaime asked.

“This is well-known,” Brienne answered stiffly, and Jaime almost wanted to laugh. Lying did not come easy to her. But he could play this game without issue.

“My lord, I would almost guess that you heard this from Lady Brienne,” Jaime said. “Be wary of what she tells you about him. The lady is not unskilled, but everyone mocks her looks and laughs at her for picking up a sword. It has made her bitter and jealous, and it brings her comfort to tell herself that Lord Jaime is to blame for her predicament.” He wished that the wench were not masked, for he was sure that her face must be reddening in anger.

“Perhaps Lord Jaime told _you _that,” she said. “It sounds like something he would say. There is no honor in it at all.”

“You speak as if Lord Jaime has inexcusably offended this lady,” Jaime said coldly. “Yet I cannot understand what he ever did to her that was so cruel.”

The song died down, and Brienne gave a slight bow, her big blue eyes staring into his own green ones. _She knows it is me. _If he had suspected it before, he was certain now. _There was not a moment where she did not know it was me. _

“Nor would he, I imagine. But we’ve had enough talk of Lord Jaime,” she said. “My lord,” she gave him a short nod before disappearing into the crowd.

Jaime stood alone as the band picked back up, suddenly feeling as if the rest of the crowd had disappeared. A lady giggled and took him by the arm as the music swelled, but he barely felt it, and she gave up after a short moment when he instead took to staring after the spot where Brienne had vanished into the throng of dancers._ There is little to him beyond that,_ she had said.

An all-too-familiar voice, slightly muffled behind a painted mask, broke him out of his daze. “Jaime,” his sister hissed—for the second time, he realized—sounding a mixture of indignant and amused. “What was that?”

“What was... You speak of Lady Brienne,” Jaime said stiffly, coming back to himself.

Cersei gave a laugh at that.

“_Lady_ Brienne! Of course the moment she can hide her face she’s back in breeches. You have an odd sense of humor, dignifying that one with a dance—although, she did not even accept your offer, did she?” His sister seemed to get pleasure out of that. “A strange one indeed.”

“I know you find this place dull,” Jaime said with a sigh, “but surely you must have something better to fixate on than Brienne of Tarth’s choice of breeches, Cersei?”

His sister shook her head.

“I have never understood your need to defend that creature. I suppose it is an odd soft spot of yours, if our brother is any evidence.”

“I am not defending her,” Jaime said. _And why should I?_ “I do not wish to hear either way what you have to say of her. I’m tired of this talk. A dance, my lady?”

Too late, he realized he had offered his right arm out of habit; the golden hand glimmered between them, painfully impossible not to notice.

“Brother,” Cersei sighed, shaking her head. “You need to stop with this foolishness.”

“Dancing with my sister is foolishness now?” Jaime asked.

“You know just what I mean!” Cersei glowered. “Just… stop pretending that things are the same. You have shown me again and again that they are not.”

His sister turned without a word and left him.

He made his way to a table at the outskirts of the gathering after a moment, where he refilled his cup of wine. He’d had enough of dancing, and it was no use standing around like a senseless fool. Jaime stood watch from his spot for several songs. _Drinking alone, Lannister. Sociable indeed._

His brother must have noticed, for he pushed his way out of the crowd to put an end to Jaime’s seclusion.

“I see my advice has gone ignored once again,” Tyrion said as he approached.

“Not true,” Jaime said. “I have suffered a greater than required number of dances tonight.”

“So I did spy you out there a few times,” Tyrion said. “What did that tall fellow have to say to you a few songs ago?”

“That tall fellow,” Jaime laughed, “is Brienne of Tarth. It gave her great joy to find me this evening, if you would believe it. She made a great jest out of pretending that she did not know who I was—as if she has any guile in her! I saw through it at once, of course. But if she realized that I knew she did not care, and took the opportunity to speak of how I have wronged her so with my lack of honor. I should have let Cersei prattle on about her, if I am as deplorable as she says—”

Robert interrupted him, shouting out a loud but unintelligible command, and the band stopped playing. Jaime and Tyrion joined the crowd in turning their heads toward the center of the gathering, where Cersei and Joffrey had joined Robert to his right. On his left stood Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn with Sansa, all of them unmasked now. The revelers chattered loudly at the development for a moment, but settled down as Robert cleared his throat and raised his cup of wine.

“A toast to Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark, and the hospitality their family has shown us all,” Robert roared. The crowd followed suit, letting out drunken hoots as they lifted their own cups.

“This will be just one of many joyous occasions to come,” Robert continued. “The bond between Winterfell and the crown has always been strong, and Ned and I are brothers in bond, if not by blood.

“Tonight,” Robert continued, “I tell you all that these ties grow even stronger. My son, Prince Joffrey, will marry Lord Eddard’s eldest daughter, Sansa Stark, joining north and south.”

Jaime regarded the announcement with mild surprise, having expected Stark to brood over the decision for at least a bit longer. From the glance that he exchanged with Tyrion, he thought his brother must have anticipated the same. But the words had barely left Robert’s mouth when a cheer went up through the crowd, louder than any of the night’s music, and even Robert’s booming voice could not reign the celebration in after that.

Robert gave a couple more ceremonious shouts before surrendering back to the celebration, the band starting up again with a particularly lively tune.

Following the newly betrothed couple’s example, people began to take off their masks as they stepped forward to congratulate Sansa and Joffrey or continue about with their dancing.

“A pity for Lady Sansa indeed,” Tyrion said after a moment. “I am glad she seems to be enjoying tonight’s merriment, at least. I doubt she’ll find any of it with her prince.”

“As do I,” Jaime agreed. He did feel a twinge of sympathy for the girl, but there was naught to be done about the match now, and Jaime desired nothing more than to hang up his own mask for the night and escape from the ball.

Brienne, meanwhile, seemed transfixed where she stood, watching Sansa like a hawk as if she were the girl’s personal guard. _Does she think there is anything she can do? _The matter was sealed. Sansa would go off to live at court once she and Joffrey were married, and Brienne… well, she would have to return to her island eventually, he supposed.

“She is too stubborn to realize any of that,” Jaime thought aloud. Tyrion looked up at him with a questioning expression.

“That she can’t protect Lady Sansa forever,” he said. But he knew without a doubt it was just like the wench to try.

* * *

After a lifetime of pining after the great tales of love, Sansa Stark at last felt like a lady in a song.

The estate grounds had taken on a new magic that evening, and even now as the night neared its end, it all still felt as if she were drifting through a dream. _But no. _She had really stood before the crowd, beside Prince Joffrey—her _betrothed—_as Robert Baratheon announced that she and Joffrey were to marry. The thought of it still made her feel as if she were floating. That, and perhaps the two extra glasses of wine she’d accepted from Joffrey.

She remained so enchanted by that evening that she could not simply return to her chambers, and lingered even after Joffrey and his family had left, still receiving the last few well-wishers. She had even beckoned Arya to join her and Jeyne Poole as the last of the guests approached to congratulate her. Arya had surprisingly agreed, but was decidedly dour about it, much as Sansa had hoped that even her sister would understand how much the night had meant to her.

But she would not let Arya spoil her spirits, Sansa decided. It was only to be expected, after all—Arya had made no secret of how she disliked the prince, and romance stories had had always bored her. Why would she take any interest in her sister’s courtship? Jeyne Poole understood, and clung onto Sansa’s arm in shared excitement.

Brienne, meanwhile, had stood watch for a time but declined to join them for the remainder of the night, to Sansa’s dismay. She had hoped that her cousin would have moved past whatever protective impulse had gripped her when she had first told her of the betrothal after the welcoming feast, but she could tell that Brienne still had not warmed to the idea at all.

“You know how she is about marriage,” Jeyne said when Sansa told her of Brienne’s reluctance to acknowledge her good fortunes. “She did wear _breeches_ to the ball, after all. Surely she knows she’s never to find a husband dressed like that.”

“I thought it was a good idea,” Arya chimed in.

“She’s lucky mother didn’t notice,” Sansa giggled. “She’d have a _fit._”

“Sansa,” Jeyne nudged her as she looked off to her left. “Lord Tyrion is headed toward us.”

Sansa followed Jeyne’s gaze to find that Lord Tyrion was indeed approaching, just when she thought that she had already received all of the guests. He gave a small smile as he approached.

"I wish you much happiness, my lady," he said. "You are a more than worthy match for any prince.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa said, still relishing each reminder of her new reality.

“Has Lady Brienne left?” Tyrion asked. "I thought she would have joined you."

“She has been acting a bit strangely," Sansa frowned. "She does not like large occasions like this, and she… well, she always worries over me. She considers it her duty to protect me from everything.”

“And she thinks no man is to be trusted,” Jeyne added.

“She bested one of her suitors in combat once rather than marry him,” Arya piped up. _That_, Sansa knew, was one of Arya’s favorite tales to tell of Brienne.

Tyrion looked at Sansa with an odd expression, one that was almost sad.

“You are fortunate to have her, my lady,” he said. “She is a friend to keep close, if you can.”

“Oh, I love her dearly,” Sansa said. “She is a sister to me. But it does her no good, all of this wariness, for me and for herself.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

"She protects herself from all the same things she tries to protect me from,” Sansa said. “A good husband would do her well. She loves the songs and stories as much as I do, really.”

“Stories like Galladon of Morne,” Arya said. “Not the boring ones like Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies.”

“That’s not true!” Sansa protested. “She likes those ones too. And she doesn’t really despise _all _men. You should see how flustered she gets whenever Lord Jaime is around.”

“_Lord Jaime?_” Jeyne asked with a giggle. “He is very comely, but you cannot mean that, Sansa. Especially after he embarrassed her the last time he was here.”

“She does not mean what she says about him,” Sansa said. “Brienne is one of the most honest people I’ve ever met, but she lies to herself and all of us when it comes to Lord Jaime.”

“She was unspeakably cruel to him just tonight, from what Jaime recounted to me,” Tyrion interjected.

“Is that why your brother made such a hasty exit?” Sansa asked. “Perhaps she did speak sharply to him. But that doesn’t mean anything. Brienne speaks of how much she does not care about him, then dwells and dwells on his presence. Just the other day when we were picking out my dress, I wish you could have seen her face when I simply said his name.”

“Even if that’s true, Lord Jaime can hardly stand to be around her,” Jeyne said. “She has given him plenty of reason to avoid her presence, with the way she speaks of him.”

Tyrion considered this for a moment.

“My brother would agree,” he said. “Though I can say he greatly dislikes the lady’s low regard for him. And he did defend her to my sister tonight, if I’m not mistaken.”

_Oh, _Sansa thought, _it is too perfect._

“I know exactly what we’re going to do,” she said. “Brienne will never admit that she can stand to be around Jaime, let alone that she has feelings for him.”

“You don’t even know that she does,” Arya interrupted.

“And she would never, ever think that he has feelings for her,” Sansa continued, ignoring her sister. “But everyone likes to know that someone else admires them. We just need to convince her that Jaime has fallen for her, and after that, everything will fall into place.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Jeyne said. “How do we convince her? She’d just laugh at us if we told her that Jaime desires her.”

“We’re not going to just tell her,” Sansa said. “She’s going to overhear. On the morrow, Arya is going to train with Brienne out by the gardens. We’ll visit the gardens tomorrow as well, just before she gets there, and while she’s in earshot, we’re going to talk about all the evidence we have that Jaime is absolutely mad for her.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “You just want it to be like one of your songs,” she said.

“So what if I do?” Sansa asked. “Singers write songs about things that actually happened all the time. Someone can write a song about how I helped Brienne find true love,” she added with a giggle.

“This is still stupid,” Arya mumbled.

“Jeyne will help me if you won’t,” Sansa declared. “Isn’t that right, Jeyne?”

Jeyne nodded eagerly.

“As will I,” Tyrion announced. “It would be good for both of them, I believe.”

Sansa clapped her hands together and let out a satisfied squeak, but Arya still looked unconvinced.

“Oh, say you’ll go along with it, Arya!” Sansa exclaimed. “Brienne would never expect such a scheme from you. She’ll have to think it’s real. What’s the harm in it?”

Arya looked at Sansa warily for a moment, then turned to Tyrion.

“Can your brother still fight?” she asked.

“So men say,” Tyrion said carefully. “I will let Jaime speak for himself on that matter.”

Arya considered that for a moment.

“Fine,” she relented at last. “I’ll help. But only because I want to see Brienne knock Lannister on his arse, and maybe they’ll spar together again if we do this.”

“Oh, it's perfect!” Sansa exclaimed. “We will need Lord Jaime to overhear a similar conversation. Lord Tyrion, shall I help you do the same with him?”

“No need for that,” Tyrion said. “Jaime might find it strange to suddenly see us so acquainted. I’ll enlist my page, Podrick Payne, for help. He’s a good lad. He’ll see the merriment in it.”

_Surely, this night __is__ a dream_, Sansa thought. Arya would regret ever calling her plan silly, Brienne would thank her in the end, and soon, she was to be a married woman—someday, even a queen. Everything was under control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been a bit crazy the past few weeks, and I regret that this took even longer to update this time around, but I'll hopefully have a bit more time to dedicate to writing going forward! Thank you again to everyone for reading, and extra love for everyone who took the time to comment. <3


	4. Chapter 4

Jaime suspected from the way his head pounded the next morning that he had drunk more than he should have the night before. It had been a while now since he let the wine get to him like this—that was more like Cersei or Tyrion. He pondered whether he had truly drank _that _much, or if his four-and-thirty years were beginning to catch up with him. Neither possibilities were particularly appealing, though he supposed he was beyond his physical peak regardless of age.

Nevertheless, his brother had left a note at his door requesting his presence in Lord Stark’s orchard that morning, and he could drag himself out of his chambers for whatever it was that Tyrion wanted. 

The sun broke warm and brilliant over Winterfell that day, and its gardens bustled as he passed through. The singer that Lord Baelish had brought north with the court strummed his lyre somewhere, crooning a ballad in celebration of Sansa and Joffrey’s betrothal. Jaime felt a growing sense of relief as the music faded behind him.

Stark’s orchard turned out to be a reprieve, so unlike the gardens that his southern wife had overseen. Winterfell must have been a dreary place before that addition, the ancient trees of the orchard the only true, cultivated greenery that the had grounds offered for generations—and even then, cultivated was a strong word for the tangle of branches and roots that dominated the space. The still serenity of the place gave it an almost eerie atmosphere, but with the bustle of wedding preparations that were already underway at Winterfell, he felt a surprising appreciation for the old trees. 

He saw Tyrion approaching before his brother spied him, but was surprised to see that he did not come alone. Instead, his page Podrick Payne followed in tow, already deep in conversation with Tyrion. Jaime thought to call out a greeting, but stopped himself as he realized the topic of their discussion.

“How fares your brother, my lord?” the boy inquired. 

“The same as usual, I fear,” Tyrion said. “I had my hopes up, foolishly, that he might make some effort not to be miserable at the ball. I even _asked _him to.”

“And he did not, my lord?” Podrick asked.

“Of course not,” Tyrion said with a shrug. Jaime bristled, wanting to protest, but decided not to reveal himself just yet, instead positioning himself behind one of the orchard’s old trees.

“Well, I suppose I’m not being entirely fair to him,” Tyrion continued after a moment. _Slightly better, _Jaime thought_._

“He did dance with Brienne of Tarth—or he tried to, at least,” Tyrion continued. “Alas, I fear it left him no less dispirited.”

“She refused him?”

“That and more,” Tyrion said. “For someone said to be so stoic, her tongue grows remarkably sharp whenever Jaime is concerned. Why, if Lady Sansa had not told me that Brienne is in love with him, I might have a hard time believing it, but she swears that it comes from the lady’s own mouth.”

Jaime nearly stumbled against the tree he stood behind. _Love!_ He held back a laugh—none found him so despicable as the wench did. He wondered what sort of jest Tyrion was setting up. Thankfully, Podrick made the inquiry for him.

“Is she really, my lord?” Podrick asked. “I thought Lady Brienne could hardly stand to be in his presence.”

“None would blame you for assuming so,” Tyrion said. “But Brienne tells the truth of it to Sansa alone. Lady Brienne has had unfavorable luck with men so far, and I suppose she thinks it is too much of a risk to reveal her affections to Jaime. She has no hope that he would reciprocate, so she disguises her true feelings behind insults and rebuffs. Her own armor of sorts.”

“That sounds terrible for her, my lord,” Podrick frowned. “But why would Lady Sansa tell you this if Brienne holds it as such a secret?”

“In hopes that I might help to end her cousin’s agony,” Tyrion said. “Brienne pines with such ferocity that Lady Sansa is concerned for her, and she is convinced that nothing will help other than Jaime returning her feelings.”

“But Brienne will never tell,” Podrick said as he pieced the information together. “So Sansa asked that _you _tell Jaime."

“Good lad,” Tyrion said. “Sadly, I cannot fault Lady Brienne for her reluctance to admit the truth to my brother. He is most… crotchety when it comes to love. He scorns Lady Brienne even in her own presence, if you would believe it.”

Podrick was quiet for a moment. “So you will not tell him about Lady Brienne’s feelings for him?” he asked. “I know that she is not a proper lady, but…”

“Oh,_ I _would be immensely relieved to see her with my brother,” Tyrion said. “I have no doubt she is an honorable and just woman. But Jaime is too set in his ways to see any of that, and downright disdainful; he refuses to consider any marriage offer that comes his way. It’s driven our father absolutely mad—something I am usually quite eager to observe, but it is painful even for me to see Jaime clinging to the past. Were it not such a sorry sight, I would say it is almost impressive how deeply he has committed himself to his own misery.”

“What do you mean by that?” Podrick asked. “What’s happened to him?” Jaime felt his stomach drop. _He would not speak of Cersei._

Tyrion waved his hand dismissively. “It is nothing. I meant only to say that Brienne is not the only one wary of love. Anyhow, we have spoken enough of my brother—I am to meet with him soon in this very orchard, and I would not have him overhearing us. Be on your way, Podrick. I should be seeking him out even now.”

“Yes, my lord,” Podrick gave a small bow and hurried out of the orchard, but Jaime could not bring himself to move.

_Love._ He let the word echo around in his head, wondering whether he had just dreamed the entire encounter. The idea that the wench _admired_ him… It sounded preposterous. But why would Lady Sansa make up such a lie? And he could find even less reason for Tyrion to recount the tale to his page, of all people, were it some fanciful invention of his. Tyrion was out of sight, and he emerged from behind the tree, pressing his good hand to his forehead and cursing his headache as he tried to process the overheard conversation.

He had little time to dwell on Tyrion’s strange claims before he was interrupted by Lady Brienne herself, her blue-clad figure shuffling toward him from across the orchard. He straightened his shoulders abruptly, trying to look as if he had not just finished eavesdropping. _What is she doing here? _He wondered. _Why now, of all times?_

“Lady Brienne,” he greeted her. She had clearly come to speak to him, from how decidedly she walked in his direction, but his acknowledgment earned him a glare from her nonetheless.

“Lady Sansa has asked that I summon you to the Great Hall,” she said. “Your family is lunching with the Starks, in light of last night’s… news. You are to join them at noon.”

Her task completed, she wasted no time in turning away from him to make her way back to the estate.

“My lady!” Jaime called out, not realizing he’d formed the words until they had already left his lips. At the same moment, he realized he had no idea what he meant to say next, either. He did know he could not bring himself to let her walk away just then, however.

Brienne turned around mid-stride and narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yes, Lord Jaime?” she asked tersely. She spoke as if he were testing her patience already, but he took a moment to regard her homely form nonetheless—the cold blue gaze she fixed upon him, her misshapen nose, the strands of straw-like hair that came loose over her face while the ends of her gown fluttered with a light breeze. A blue fabric, much like her eyes.

“Your dress...” Jaime said, latching onto the image as he fumbled for his next words. Brienne looked even more impatient as she stared at him, now with an added dose of suspicion.

“You wear it well,” he said at last. “It brings out the blue in your eyes.” She was no beauty, but that much was true.

Brienne stared at him like he had just spoken to her in a different tongue, her expression flitting between wariness and bewilderment. She paused as if waiting for him to say more, but neither spoke for a long moment. 

“Sansa made it,” she stammered out at last as she lowered her gaze to the ground. “I… I have to go. You would be wise to be on time yourself.”

Jaime watched with bemusement as Brienne turned around and all but ran in the opposite direction. _Flustered. _Could that really be what all of this was about? And if so, was he really all that his brother had said of him? _Scornful, disdainful. _Surely Tyrion must see that he was only meeting the wench blow-for-blow. But even as he tried to reassure himself, the words nagged at him. 

He tried to catch a glimpse of Brienne, but she was already out of sight by then. Jaime found himself thinking of the last time he had been truly alone with her, all those moons ago beside the river—Her strength, the thrill that she could _almost_ overtake him, her flushed face when they were discovered. It was all so simple then.

Simple... He gave a sigh, his meeting with Tyrion forgotten, and marveled at the thought that he could have ever considered this trip to Winterfell would unfold in any such way.

* * *

Brienne had never been so grateful for a training session with Arya as she was the day after the ball. 

Had it not been for King Robert’s announcement, the occasion would not have been nearly as dreadful as she had feared. Something about the painted mask she wore had made her feel bolder and less like herself, and when Brienne had the idea to don breeches, even Sansa was giddy enough over the whole affair that she seemed to find the disguise devilishly clever, rather than mortifying.

Feeling almost as girlish as her cousin, that wicked sort of revelry had gripped Brienne the hardest when she found herself face-to-face with Lord Jaime, and a part of herself that she hardly recognized took control when she pretended not to know him.

Then the king had dashed her spirits when he joined the Starks to announce Sansa’s betrothal to Prince Joffrey. 

Brienne had known it was coming. Sansa told her as much. But still, her stomach had churned at the announcement, her clever disguise suddenly feeling insipid as the reality of the situation crashed down around her. It mattered not that she wore a mask and breeches and stood against Jaime Lannister. In just a week, Sansa was to marry the prince, and would afterwards go off to live in the lion’s den that he called home. 

Sparring would be a temporary reprieve, at least. She had waited all day to hold her sword, her usual morning session pushed back from all of the commotion with the guests and the wedding. She always felt different when she had a sword in her hands. Even when it was only lessons with Arya, the world was changed the moment she gripped the blade’s hilt. With a sword she was more than the ugly, awkward child who had wept bitter tears when Ronnet Connington had humiliated her with a rose and a scorned betrothal. By the time her father tried to fix her a marriage with Humphrey Wagstaff, she was skilled enough to beat back her final suitor, to beat back anyone... or near enough to anyone.

“Oh, you know I love Brienne like a sister, but she’s being insufferably stubborn!” Sansa’s voice rang out through the gardens. Brienne went stiff at the mention of her name, scanning the yard to find that her cousin had appeared with Jeyne Poole and Arya flanking her._ Strange of Arya to dawdle just before a lesson._ Brienne was ever-punctual, but she often found the younger Stark girl waiting for her by the time she arrived at their regular meeting place. 

Stranger still was Sansa’s remark, and she found herself fighting the sudden temptation to hide in the nearby bushes to hear the rest of the conversation._ It is wrong to eavesdrop_, she told herself._ I should be on my way_. 

“But_ Jaime Lannister_?” Jeyne asked in disbelief. “All of their quarreling, and you mean to tell me he’s in love with her?”

Brienne stopped dead in her tracks, feeling her face burning hot and cold at once so that she couldn’t tell if the skin had gone furious red or white as a ghost.

“Devastatingly so,” Sansa sighed. “Tyrion told me as much. Poor Lord Jaime simply doesn’t know what to do with himself—I didn’t even realize he was capable of such wallowing! But he knows that Brienne has rejected every marriage proposal that Lord Selwyn has arranged for her, and you’ve seen how she speaks to him.”

Forgetting herself, Brienne scrambled to sit behind a row of bushes before Sansa or Jeyne could see her.

“You must tell her!” Jeyne insisted. “By the way she acts, she has no idea. If she knew, perhaps…”

“Tyrion asked that I do the same, but I fear it’s all hopeless,” Sansa said. “She won’t hear it. She’s too kind to laugh—not at me, at least—but I doubt she’ll even believe me. And like I said, she has no interest in such things. She… she doesn’t think herself fit for them.”

“But if she knew,” Jeyne pressed. “Lord Jaime is most gallant and handsome. Surely even she must see that.”

“This is true, but Brienne is not so shallow,” Sansa said. “And I’m afraid her mind has been made up. Once she’s cast her judgement on a man, there’s no budging her. She admires Lord Jaime’s skill with the sword, but that is where any respect or regard for him ends, and if any man were to woo her, he must be the picture of honor and courtesy. If Lord Jaime told her of his feelings, he would hear only her sharp words of how he has neither.”

Sansa looked to Arya, who had remained silent. “Isn’t that right, Arya?” she asked at last.

“It’s true,” Arya mumbled. “She has no love for Lannister. He should save himself the trouble and not bother.”

Sansa nodded solemnly. “I shudder to think of the reprimands he would endure. Just last night, Lord Tyrion told me she was dreadfully cruel to Lord Jaime at the ball, making some great jest of insulting him as she acted that she did not know him. He is so smitten with Brienne he could not bear his sister speaking ill of her, not even after all of her rebukes.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jeyne sighed. “Lady Brienne has shown again and again she is impossible with these things. A pity that she is so committed to living the rest of her days alone. Perhaps Lord Jaime should challenge her to a duel for her hand,” she added with a giggle. “Of all men, he may have a chance.”

“He’s more likely to win her over with a sword than words,” Sansa agreed. “Well, go along, Arya, I will not leave Brienne waiting for your lessons. Though I do hope she does not give you any ideas on dueling your suitors.”

Arya broke off from the group, headed toward the clearing in the gardens where she was to meet Brienne, but Brienne remained stuck in place behind the bushes as Sansa and Jeyne departed in the opposite direction, her thoughts racing as she tried to process what she had just overheard. 

_No, it was ridiculous. They’re playing a game_, she reasoned. _They're joking. No, no, no_.

She realized her fingers were dug so deeply into the grass that they had gone stark white. Sansa must have fallen victim to some sort of trickery. A sick joke—Brienne was no stranger to finding herself at the center of those. 

Sansa had said that Lord Tyrion had been the one to tell her of Jaime’s affections; perhaps this was his doing. Yes, Tyrion must have told Sansa in hopes that she would tell Brienne. It would be a good laugh when the ugly maid professed her love to a bewildered Jaime. And, had the trick succeeded, why wouldn’t one such as her rush at the opportunity? What else could she hope for?

Still, something felt wrong. She did not know Jaime’s little brother well at all, had scarcely exchanged more than the expected pleasantries with him. Men called him a curse on Lord Tywin, a punishment for his arrogance, yet Brienne had never found fault in his character. He had a sharp tongue, but she had not thought him carelessly cruel. In their brief encounters, he had seemed almost kind.

_Hyle and Edmund and Ben were kind, too._ She shuddered as she remembered that other life, a bet against her maidenhood as she pined over Lord Renly.

In a time not so distant as that, she _had_ thought Lord Jaime handsome and gallant. Even now she could not deny him the former. When they first met, he had found her appearance as bewildering as anyone else—that was clear enough from the looks he gave her. But when they sparred, she thought that perhaps he was the one man in the realm who took her seriously. 

_He didn’t, _she reminded herself. _And why would he? _He surely never thought of her again when he left Winterfell with his beautiful, cold-hearted sister that he so loved.

But what if she was wrong? A part of her that she despised ached at the thought of it, and she scolded herself for the butterflies that flitted about in her stomach. Her appearance aside, Jaime had no reason to harbor any fondness for her. _Dreadfully cruel,_ she pondered on Sansa’s words for a moment._ I was dreadfully cruel to him last night. _And how many times before that, as well? 

And what had Sansa meant when she spoke of Cersei, of how Jaime could not stand to hear his sister disparage her? And her strange encounter with him that morning, when he spoke of her dress, her eyes… It made no sense, with all of his own mockery towards her. Brienne’s head was beginning to spin from all the questions swirling through it, and she closed her eyes for a moment as she sat there in the grass, trying to find some sense in it all.

“Very well,” she spoke aloud at last. Whatever any of it meant, she decided she would forget that she had ever overheard this folly.

A nagging part of her knew that she would not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my last author's note ended up being false, but thank you to anyone who's stuck with this!


	5. Chapter 5

Arya had never understood her sister’s fascination with weddings.

The room was all chaos as a fleet of Winterfell’s serving girls scampered around Sansa, brushing her hair and lacing up a gown that looked horribly uncomfortable. Her lady mother flitted in and out of the room, trying to instill some sense of order as her sister readied to make her way to the sept, but Brienne had yet to be seen.

Sansa had noted her absence as well. “What takes my cousin so long?” she frowned, turning to one of her attendants. “Fetch Lady Brienne for me,” she said. The girl gave a quick nod before hurrying out of the room.

Jeyne gave a glance towards the door. “Worry not, Sansa,” she said, having found no sign of Lady Catelyn. “With any luck, she’s only been distracted by Lord Jaime.”

Arya fought back a groan as Sansa smirked. Her sister was all too pleased with herself for the entire plot she had devised with Tyrion. It had even been Sansa’s idea to send Brienne to summon Jaime from the orchard once Tyrion’s page had returned, and she had prided herself on the scheme all week.

To her sister’s credit, Brienne _had _been acting strangely ever since she had overheard them in the garden. She looked as if she wanted to flee whenever Lord Jaime was even mentioned—which Sansa and Jeyne had taken to doing as often as possible—and she had not an ill word to say of him, which was an oddity in itself.

“It think you’ll get your wish, Arya,” Jeyne continued with a giggle. “You said you wanted them to spar again. Before long, we’ll surely have Lord Jaime thrusting his sword at her.”

“Jeyne!” Sansa exclaimed.

Arya rolled her eyes. Sansa was too proper to sink to crudity, but Jeyne had been acting a fool as she reveled in Sansa’s work. “I _said_ that I wanted to see her knock Lannister on his arse.”

“All the better,” Jeyne said. “On the time the king and his men came across them, they found Lord Jaime underneath her, did they not? Some men like that, you know.”

“You’re being vulgar, Jeyne,” Sansa said, biting her lip as Arya glowered at her sister’s companion.

“He’ll take her as a wife first!” Jeyne added with a giggle.

Jeyne was getting far ahead of herself_, _Arya wanted to say, despite Sansa’s promises that Lord Tyrion insisted they’d ensnared Jaime in their trap as well_._

And as for Brienne… Arya was not sure how she felt about the idea of a lovestruck Brienne. She had heard whispers that her cousin had once been infatuated with Renly Baratheon, when she had still lived with her father in the Stormlands. Arya had always found the image hard to picture, nevertheless.

Brienne came hurrying into the room just then, looking slightly disheveled.

“I am sorry for my lateness, Sansa,” she huffed, straightening her shoulders.

“Do not worry yourself, cousin” Sansa said. “I only feared you were not well. You have seemed… troubled, lately.”

Brienne eyed them all suspiciously. “You are kind to worry over me, but it’s not necessary,” she said.

A servant saved her cousin from any further torment.

“Your carriage awaits, my lady,” a girl announced at the room’s door. Sansa paled for the shortest moment, but quickly regained whatever composure she’d lost, returning Jeyne’s smile as her friend grasped at her hands eagerly.

Arya felt oddly sorry for her sister just then; Sansa had finally seemed gripped by some agitation that morning, much as she denied it, and Arya wondered if she had the smallest doubt about her prince.

She wondered if she should offer some comfort. “Your dress is pretty,” she found herself saying instead.

Sansa regarded her, surely unimpressed. But they were the right words, for once, and she won a smile.

“Thank you, Arya,” Sansa said before turning back to the serving girl. “We will be out in just a moment.”

Arya looked towards Brienne, but met a faraway, distracted look in her eyes. She wondered if her cousin had ever dreamed of a wedding, or if her worries were only for Sansa now.

Brienne noticed her stare at last and returned a small, uncertain smile, as if to assure her they would get through this_._ Arya nodded in return, hoping she was right.

* * *

Sansa looked enchanting as she made her way to the front of the sept, her hair pulled halfway up in an elaborate southern fashion—the best her maids could do to replicate the style, at least—while the rest tumbled down her back in glistening auburn ringlets. She drifted towards the altar with sparkling eyes as a troupe of musicians played an airy tune, though Joffrey granted her no more than a brief smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Arse,” Arya muttered to Brienne. She glanced down at Arya, silently pleading with her to be quiet as they stood off to the side of the altar with Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard. It was a small sept, though the largest the Northerners could offer, and the entire court had packed into it alongside what seemed to be half of the North. On the opposite side of the altar she spied King Robert, the queen, and Lord Jaime, though she tried not to let her eyes dwell there for too long.

The prince kept his mouth fixed in a stiff line as the septon began the ceremony, but Brienne barely heard the words as she watched her cousin. Sansa kept a smile plastered on her face, but her eyes swept to the ground periodically, her expression faltering. Brienne felt herself beginning to anger; Sansa’s nerves had crept up on her that morning, and Joffrey could at the very least try to bring his bride some comfort on the her wedding day.

But before long, it was time for the vows.

“Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” the septon at last called out, “Do you take Prince Joffrey of the House Baratheon as your husband?”

“I do,” Sansa said, offering him a bright smile.

“And do you, Joffrey Baratheon—”

“I will stop you there, septon,” the prince spoke out. Brienne looked to Arya, then to Lady Catelyn as a silence fell over the sept. “This has gone on long enough.”

“Why… my-my prince...” the septon stuttered, confounded.

“Is there something wrong, my love?” Sansa asked quietly, her face blanching.

“You sputter lies at me even now,” Joffrey hissed, turning away from Sansa to address the crowd. “We gather here for nothing. There will be no wedding today.”

Brienne froze. _No wedding. _How she had dreamed of hearing those words just over a week ago, as Lord Stark considered the king’s offer. They sounded straight from a nightmare now.

Sansa’s face was still, almost uncomprehending, but Brienne could see the realization dawning over her cousin’s expression as well.

“Lady Sansa is no fit match,” Joffrey said, his voice growing louder. “For she is no maiden at all. The night before her own wedding, she took that singer into her bed,” he said, pointing a finger toward the musicians, where the sandy-haired singer—Marillion, Brienne had heard him called—had stopped plucking at his lyre.

The spell of silence that the prince had managed to cast over the crowd broke with the accusation, and dozens of frenzied accusations immediately filled the air. Sansa regarded the commotion with silent horror, looking as if she might be ill.

Brienne rushed forward to her cousin’s side, all propriety forgotten.

“No,” Sansa said as she looked up at Brienne. “No, no… I did no such thing,” she turned to look out over the raucous crowd as if she meant to address them. “I did no such thing!” she said, louder this time, but none seemed to hear her over their own chatter and gasps.

On the other side of the altar, the queen snapped something at Robert. Jaime moved between them, placing a hand on Cersei’s shoulder, though she quickly swatted it away.

“Robert, what is the meaning of this?” Lord Stark demanded over the commotion. “Prince or not, he will not speak of my daughter this way!”

“Oh, she should count herself fortunate that all I have done is speak of her this way,” Joffrey spit out. “I ought to have her stripped naked and paraded through the streets, let everyone see her for the whore she is.”

“That is enough!” Brienne snapped, glaring down at the prince. A flicker of fear crossed his eyes. _Good._ “Do not threaten my cousin again, or speak another vile lie of her.”

The queen turned toward Brienne, her nostrils flaring.

“How dare you speak to your prince in such a way,” Cersei Lannister said. “It is _you _who would threaten my son and call him a liar in the same breath.”

“Cersei—” Jaime started, stepping in front of his sister so that Brienne looked at his back.

“He is a liar!” Arya shouted.

“Enough!” Robert bellowed. Even the king’s booming roar could not completely silence the crowd by then, but the voices echoing throughout the sept died down to whispers. “What in the name of the gods is happening here?”

“I saw the singer leave her bedchamber with my own eyes,” Joffrey spat out. “And I need not only see it. It’s a wonder all of Winterfell didn’t hear, with how loudly he screamed her name. Lord Baelish will tell you the same!”

Catelyn’s eyes went wide as she turned toward Petyr, silently imploring him to say otherwise. He gave a long sigh.

“I’m afraid it’s all true,” Lord Baelish said mournfully.

“Petyr!” Catelyn gasped as Sansa recoiled against Brienne.

Robert Baratheon scanned the altar, looking almost regretful for a moment as he met the gaze of Lord Stark. Then his expression hardened, and he fixed his glare on Sansa.

“Then she will disgrace this holy place no longer,” he said at last. “We are done here.”

* * *

“I am unimaginably sorry, Cat,” Lord Baelish said as he placed a hand on Lady Stark’s shoulder. “But you understand, I could not lie to the king.”

“Your senses deceived you, Petyr,” Catelyn said, shaking her head. Strands of her carefully-styled auburn hair hung loose now, and she seemed unable to meet her childhood friend’s gaze. “It was dark, you could not have been close enough to know. It cannot be true. My Sansa would never bring such dishonor upon herself and her betrothed.”

“My aunt speaks the truth,” Brienne said, fighting the urge to rip Lord Baelish’s hand from Catelyn’s shoulder. “This is absurd.”

Arya and Jeyne had taken Sansa away with a flurry of servants as soon as they arrived back to Winterfell, her father gone off to try to speak some sense to his king. As for the prince, she had not the slightest idea where he might be, though she preferred to think it might be at the bottom of a ditch. But Lord Baelish had taken the opportunity to steal her aunt away, and Brienne did not like the thought of Catelyn alone with the man, childhood friend or not.

Lord Baelish ignored her. “Cat, I cannot imagine how difficult this must be for you,” he started, but Catelyn cut him off.

“She would not,” she snapped, though some of the fury in her voice faltered as she whispered, “This will ruin her nonetheless, Petyr. It is enough that the royal family believes it. She dreamed of a day such as this for so long, and her prospects have been ruined within an hour.

“Ned has never trusted the Lannisters,” she went on, “and Robert acts only when no other option remains. I should have known this would go wrong.”

“My lady...” Brienne stepped toward her tentatively, but Catelyn shook her head.

“Brienne,” she said, “go and see to Sansa.”

“Lady Catelyn, I should not leave you alone—” Brienne began.

“I will be fine,” Catelyn said. “My daughter has need of you now.”

Lord Baelish nodded solemnly. Brienne could have hit him.

“I… of course,” Brienne said at last, turning to leave the room.

“Your Sansa is a sweet girl, from what I know of her,” Baelish said as she pulled the creaking door shut, though she could not not bring herself to leave just then.

“Her recent behavior has been… most unfortunate,” she heard his muffled voice through the door. “But not all is lost. I know a man, highborn and esteemed by the king, who would happily take her as his bride, even after this most unlucky turn of events.”

“Who do you speak of?” Catelyn asked suspiciously. Brienne felt her stomach lurch as Baelish spoke his next words.

“Why, my dear Catelyn,” he said. “You look upon him now.”

Brienne felt as if her feet had been frozen to the ground for a moment. Then, she turned and ran down the hall, not caring if Lady Catelyn or Lord Baelish could hear her heavy footfalls, barely remembering to mumble out an apology as she nearly barreled down a servant in her haste.

_I must find Sansa_, she thought as she ran. She would find her, and… and what? She thought of Sansa’s crestfallen face as she stood at the altar, the court and high lords gasping and gossiping even as her cousin stood before them, Lady Catelyn bidding her to leave, Lord Baelish proposing himself as a match for Sansa. And of herself, powerless to stop it all.

She even thought of Ronnet Connington, of the wager against her maidenhood, of Renly’s merciful smiles, her father sending her to Winterfell when she was of little other use on Tarth. Failure after failure, and what was she good for now, when she could not even protect her cousin?

She ran until she was outside in the newly fallen twilight, lungs burning and unsure of just where she was heading, until the gardens perfumed the evening deceptively sweet.

She stopped at last in the clearing where she had eavesdropped upon Sansa only a week earlier, and might have wept had she not wanted so badly to scream. She despaired, stupidly, that she had not had her sword on her.

“I would have run him through,” she said aloud to herself, to no one. None answered her but the crickets and the last of the day’s birdsong, for a spell.

“The prince?” A voice asked from behind her, too familiar. She stiffened.

“Lord Jaime?” She turned around and blinked, half-expecting him to vanish as an illusion would. Brienne began to wonder if she had taken to bed with a fever and was dreaming this entire day. “What are you doing here?”

“You speak of the prince,” he said, a statement this time.

“Yes,” she asserted. “I would have run him through right there, in front of everyone. I might still.”

Jaime nodded. “I thought as much,” he said. “Though I would advise against that, my lady.”

“Do you think I cannot do it?” Brienne asked, anger rising in her voice.

“I _know _you can do it, wench,” Jaime rolled his eyes. “I simply think that it is not in your best interest to murder the crown prince.”

“I’ll challenge him to a duel,” she said. “I have that right. It is no murder, and it is no greater dishonor than what he’s done to my cousin.”

Jaime sighed. “Will you think for a moment?”

“None believe my cousin,” she said. “Your nephew and sister will continue to see to that, I’m sure. And now _Lord Baelish _means to offer himself as a match.”

“_Baelish? _Where did you hear that?”

“I heard him propose it to Lady Catelyn myself!” Brienne said. “Sansa has been wronged! If none will defend her, then I have no choice but to—”

“I do,” Jaime cut her off. Brienne stared at him. “Believe her,” he said. “I believe you.”

“You… you do?” Brienne asked. Jaime had come closer to her during their exchange, close enough to touch—or had she stepped closer to him? She did not know. Part of her wanted to pull away, but another part longed to lean into him.

She thought of Sansa, Jeyne, and Arya in the gardens, spinning their fanciful tales. The sweet lies prickled at her insides when she dwelled on them for too long, as if she had swallowed a rose bush. _Y__ou mean to tell me he’s in love with her? _She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She had real battles to fight, and no time to reside in foolish dreams.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Not what you expected of me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Brienne said quickly.

“I have told it true, either way,” Jaime said. “Allow me a chance to help you fix this, Brienne, before you do anything rash.”

“Who are you to tell me what is rash?” Brienne asked. The words came out softer than she had intended. “When have you ever used your sword for peacemaking?”

Jaime’s face twisted into a scowl. “I do not have so many opportunities for recklessness, as I once did,” he said ruefully.

“What do you mean by that?”

Jaime stared at her for a spell. “Dance with me, Brienne,” he said at last.

“Jaime...” She took a step back.

“Lord Stark’s armory is just around the corner from here, is it not?” Jaime asked. “Come, we’re no strangers to dancing.”

“Why do you want to spar _now_?” Brienne asked.

Jaime shrugged. “I told you, it’s been too long since I’ve had a worthy dancing partner.” Brienne felt herself flush at his recollection of the ball, the scheme she had thought so clever at the time. “Pretend I’m Joffrey, if you wish.”

“I don’t want to pretend you’re—”

“None will discover us this time, if that’s what you’re so concerned about,” Jaime sighed. “Gods, wench, I don’t understand why you act as if they caught us _fucking_—”

"You left me here, humiliated!” Brienne exclaimed. “Do you know what they called me? They called me Jaime Lannister’s_ whore.”_

“Brienne...” he trailed off, for once at a loss for words. But Brienne suddenly found she had no shortage of them.

“It was no black mark on your honor, my lord,” she continued, unsure of where this fire had come from but unable to let the flames die. “It was a joke, of course—or rather, I was. As desperate as men are to follow a maid to her bedchamber, Lord Jaime Lannister would never lower himself to court _Brienne the Beauty._”

Jaime was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Lower myself?” he asked, his voice deadly soft. He took a step towards her, closing the distance she had created.

“I...” Brienne began, but all of the words that had flowed so freely just a moment ago had suddenly dried up in her throat. She almost took another step back, but he spoke again.

“Come,” Jaime said, taking her by the wrist with his good hand. Surprisingly gentle, as if he were asking her leave. Perplexed, she found herself nodding.

* * *

She had Jaime disarmed in minutes. She stared at him as he bent to pick up the sword, not quite believing it. _A fluke, surely._

Jaime shrugged as he readjusted his position. "Well?" he asked. "Are you going to stand there and gape, or are you going to see if you can manage that again?"

She nodded, wordlessly resuming her position as he moved in to deliver another blow. The dance barely lasted longer than their first, and before long she had him disarmed again and knocked to the ground, the tip of her sword resting just above his throat. He looked up to meet her gaze, eyes burning into hers as if awaiting some sort of judgment.

Brienne thought of the swirling rumors, the boasts that Jaime, by his own insistence, was just as skilled with his left hand as he was with his right. But this swordsman was a pale shadow of the one she had sparred with all those moons ago by the river, if any semblance remained at all. They were in peacetime now, an easy enough period to keep one’s sword sheathed and hide behind pretense. But no peace lasted forever, and when Robert or Lord Tywin called upon him to lead armies again...

“Jaime,” she gasped. “They have no idea, do they?”

“My men? Not the slightest,” he answered, shifting his body off the ground. “And I intend to keep it that way.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped as Brienne continued to stare. “Can you imagine following a man into battle knowing that Lady Sansa could best him in combat?”

“No matter, it is foolishly dangerous to keep this up,” she persisted, taking his arm as she helped him up.

"What exactly do you suggest I _do,_ then?" he asked, anger rising in his voice. "Retire my sword and marry the Tyrell girl, as my father would have it? Live the rest of my days as the crippled Lord of the Rock?”

Brienne could not keep her eyes from widening. “You’re betrothed to Lady Margaery?” she asked. It should be no surprise. It should be of no concern to her at all, but she felt an odd, familiar sting nonetheless.

“No, I am not betrothed,” Jaime gave a dry laugh. “Thank the gods for that. But my father’s patience wears thin. He’s not known as a man to take no for an answer, as you may have heard, and he’s found… shall we say, an opportunity in my misfortune. Even a cripple can hold the Rock, if not a sword.”

“Margaery Tyrell would make most men happy to have that,” Brienne said softly.

Jaime gave her a small smile. “Do not tell me you think of me as lowly as_ most men._ Besides, I do not want the Rock.”

“What_ do_ you want?” Brienne asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. She had not let go of his arm, she realized, and they stood so close that a strand of his hair nearly tickled her face. She tried to read his expression, but a thousand thoughts may have crossed his mind at once in the long silence that lingered.

“Do not entangle yourself in this disaster that is my family,” he said at last. “We will see to it that your cousin’s reputation is restored.”

Brienne nodded, a strange mixture of warmth and trepidation and something else she could not name sweeping through her. “I want that, Jaime," she said softly. "But if I must defend her myself, do not try to stop me."

“We will see to it,” he said. “I swear it, wench.”


	6. Chapter 6

“You would think we had all gathered in the sept for a funeral, rather than a wedding,” Tyrion remarked.

It was true, Jaime thought. The entire estate had fallen into a hushed silence, the songs and conversations that had dominated the halls forgotten within a day, and Lady Sansa shut away somewhere as if she were the one who had perished. But Winterfell’s guests did not extend their condolences to the Starks, and none spoke sweet words of the absent lady.

“What is to become of Lady Sansa?” Jaime asked.

“I cannot say,” Tyrion said. “Everyone is still trying to parse together what happened. Robert seems to think it’s punishment enough that the girl has been publicly shamed, and he hesitates to spurn Lord Stark too harshly. Though Cersei is arguing for harsher consequences, of course. It is her gallant son who has suffered painful humiliation through all of this, she says.”

“Of course,” Jaime said. “It’s a wonder to me any believe this. _Sansa Stark? _The girl was so enamored with Joffrey I’m not sure she even knew there was a singer in Winterfell.”

“She does take a liking towards singers,” Tyrion said regretfully. “I do not mean to say that I think she is guilty of these accusations,” he added before Jaime could protest. “But that’s what Cersei so joyfully pointed out to Robert.

“Anyhow, Lord Stark has been speaking with Jory Cassel without break, from what I’ve heard,” Tyrion went on. “Trying to find out if any of the other guards saw anything amiss that night. Cassel interrogated the singer for a good two hours, at the least, but I do not believe he gleaned much that can be used in Lady Sansa’s favor.”

“All of this scandal, based on the word of Joffrey and Petyr Baelish?” Jaime raised an eyebrow. “When did he and Joffrey become so close that they take evening strolls together?”

“Joffrey tells it that he ran into him by coincidence. He claims there was much noise drawing them in that direction.”

“And now _Baelish _thinks himself fit to marry the heir to Winterfell?”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Where did you hear that?”

“Lady Brienne.”

“Ah,” Tyrion said. “_Your_ evening stroll.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jaime asked, the words coming out sharper than he had intended.

Tyrion shrugged. “You chose a rather eventful time for a walk through the gardens. I suspected you might be partaking in something other than admiring the scenery.”

“I spoke with Lady Brienne,” Jaime said simply.

“You spoke with Lady Brienne? That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Roll up your sleeve.”

“Why—”

“_Roll it up._”

Jaime sighed, knowing he was defeated either way now, and pushed the sleeve back from his golden hand to reveal one of the bruises that the wench had battered upon him in her attack, the marks of dull aches that his mind had fixated on until he fell asleep that night.

“I_ knew_ you were holding your arm in an odd way,” Tyrion accused, rather cheerfully. “I’ll assume that’s not the only bruise, either.”

“We sparred,” Jaime said as he smoothed the fabric back over his wrist.

“You lost.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jaime snapped, quickly scolding himself for the outburst as Tyrion smirked at his response. “It doesn’t matter. We were speaking of her cousin.”

“Well,” Tyrion said as he poured a glass of wine. “I must say, I did not realize you were so invested in Sansa Stark’s well-being.”

Jaime took a long sip from his wine, Tyrion’s questioning gaze boring into him the entire time.

“I believe the girl is innocent,” he shrugged.

“And?” Tyrion asked.

“So that Ned Stark is tormented by the need to thank me,” Jaime rolled his eyes. “The man would rather shove a hot coal up his arse, and I think we could all use the entertainment.”

“Don’t try to deflect with me.”

“Then tell me, what other reason do I need?”

“Jaime, this is all very chivalrous,” Tyrion said. “But you must understand why I find it rather strange. There was no need for you to take this all upon yourself—I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but in all honesty, I’m not even sure what your support _can _do for Lady Sansa.”

Tyrion was right, of course. Against the narrative approved by Robert and Joffrey—and certainly his father as well, once Lord Tywin had the chance—what good was the support of a cripple who had run from every one of his father’s attempts to have him play at politics? His opinion on the matter meant next to nothing.

“I swore to Lady Brienne that I would see to the girl’s innocence,” Jaime admitted tiredly. It had felt a perfectly reasonable idea at the time. He had never seen the wench so distressed as when he had found her that evening in the gardens—irritated and sullen on countless occasions, surely, but this was something different, some wild mixture of rage and despair that nearly tempted him to take her into his arms, had he dared. And so he had sworn to her, and it had felt right.

He had barely the slightest idea what to do now.

He had taken it upon himself to question the court’s guards for anything they may have witnessed, but it was all useless; the Starks’ household guards were the only ones who would have been anywhere near Lady Sansa’s chambers, and they were unreachable to him, answering only to Lord Stark.

Tyrion laughed. “There’s the truth of it. Well, you did get yourself into this mess, brother. I suppose we’ll have to find a way to get you out of it. Anything else I should know of this plight of yours?”

“Brienne means to duel Joffrey,” Jaime said.

Tyrion nearly choked on the wine that he was sipping, though after a moment, Jaime could not tell if his brother was coughing or laughing—likely a mixture of both.

“Gods,” Tyrion said at last. “Well, I can’t say he does not deserve it.”

“Oh, he deserves it,” Jaime said. “Though I do not find Brienne deserving of… this,” he gestured about vaguely. “Father, Cersei, all of it.”

“You care for her,” Tyrion offered. “And it pains you to see her unhappy.” Jaime was silent again.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, you do know,” Tyrion said. “It has always baffled me that you would be ashamed of having affections for a woman who is not Cersei—and a much nobler lady than her, at that.”

“Tyrion,” Jaime warned.

“Why can’t we speak of it, Jaime?” Tyrion demanded. “I have never understood your devotion to her. There is a _reason _you wish to keep Brienne away from her.”

“I do not blind myself to it,” Jaime snapped before softening his voice. “Cersei and I… we are not as we were.” He pushed his wine cup away, trying to clear the strange muddle that threatened to cloud his mind. There had no time for that now, not when he had to think of _something, _if he was to keep Lady Brienne’s favor.

_Her favor. _Another strange thought, though one that filled him with a different sensation. He fought back the urge to press Tyrion on that overheard conversation, to demand all that he knew.

“Well,” Tyrion said after a long silence. “I will say, there are simpler ways to win a lady’s heart. Jewels, compliments… Oh, you could write her a sonnet. I have heard that the ladies are simply dying over sonnets these days.”

Jaime winced. “I am not writing a _sonnet._”

“You may need some help with that,” Tyrion agreed.

Jaime shook his head. “I will speak with Cersei,” he mumbled, not sure if he was talking to Tyrion or to himself.

Tyrion stared at him. “You will speak with Cersei,” he repeated slowly. “_That’__s _your plan? Trying to speak sense to Cersei?”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “I never said it was a plan. It’s a start, and it would be senseless not to try.” She had some sway over Joffrey and Robert—more than him, at least—and it could only help to have the queen take Lady Sansa’s side.

“What does that even mean, you’re not as you were?” Tyrion asked. “Did she even listen to you when you _were _fucking her?”

Jaime ignored his brother’s protests. “Where is she now?” He had already wasted time; with how stubborn the wench was, the gods only knew how long Brienne would wait before she decided she needed to take matters into her own hands.

“You should know that better than me,” Tyrion shrugged. “Her chambers, if she’s done arguing with Robert? There’s hardly any feasts or dances for her to attend to now. Jaime, perhaps you should—”

Jaime nodded and rose, ignoring Tyrion’s cautions. He would convince her. He had to.

* * *

Jaime found his sister surrounded by a small ensemble of serving girls, still brushing out her hair and fussing about with her gown.

“Cersei,” he said as he entered the room. The serving girls immediately snapped their heads towards him, but Cersei did not budge. “I would have a word alone with you.”

His sister’s back stiffened.

“I am occupied, brother,” she said without turning around. “Whatever it is can wait, I’m sure.”

“It can’t.”

Cersei let out a sigh. “Leave me now,” she directed the serving girls. He waited as the room emptied.

“Cersei,” Jaime said, when the last of them had scampered out the door, “this business with Sansa Stark must come to an end. I know you see the truth of it as well.”

“That the girl besmirched herself over a pretty face and a few sweet words?” Cersei asked. “Don’t let her fool you so easily,” she continued before he could protest. “I can assure you she is more than capable of swooning over Joffrey while desiring the singer at the same time.”

“So you believe all of this based on her fondness for songs and the word of Baelish?” Jaime asked.

“And Joffrey, if I must remind you,” she said coldly. “But no, I see no reason to distrust Lord Baelish. He has served his king wisely and well, and does not think to bother me with nonsense.”

“And now he intends to marry Sansa Stark,” Jaime said, watching a flicker of surprise cross his sister’s face for a moment. “Ah, so you didn’t know that—it’s rather suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Joffrey saw what happened with his own eyes,” Cersei asserted. “I see no reason to point fingers in a different direction when the answer is just before us.”

“You do know Joffrey must marry eventually,” Jaime said, exasperated. “What was so wrong with this match?”

“He has no need of the Northern girl,” Cersei said simply. “And if I may remind you, it’s not as if we need the Starks breathing down our backs. Lord Stark has always been eager to fault us of anything. Do you think having his precious daughter in our custody will make matters any easier?”

“Cersei, none of this will make matters any easier,” Jaime pressed. “It will ruin the girl. Not only that, but she is the heir to Winterfell—Joffrey’s outburst casts disgrace upon her family’s name and prospects. They will not look past this easily.”

“The Starks are an ancient and proud house, but they would never be foolish enough to stand against us,” Cersei said. “I will grant you that Joff did not need to choose such a grandiose manner of going about this, but the Stark girl is only reaping the consequences she deserves.”

“The consequences she deserves,” Jaime repeated incredulously. “Cersei, even if any of this idiocy were true, must I remind you that _we _fucked the night before your own wedding?”

Cersei stood up, her eyes ablaze.

“Robert deserved it all, with his whoring and drunkenness—I will not have my son endure the same,” she seethed. “I pray I don’t need to tell you not to utter another word of this elsewhere. You disgrace your own house, speaking this lunacy.”

“You are mistaken if you think I will stand by this lie,” Jaime said.

Cersei glared at him. “Tell me, when did you become a lackey to the Starks? Or is it only to that cow they take pity on?”

Jaime felt his blood chill. “Do not speak of her that way,” he said. “I am acting of my own accord. Lady Brienne has nothing to do with this.”

“I would hope not, if I were her,” Cersei said softly. “Leave me now, brother. I will not hear another word of this.”

* * *

It was the third day that Sansa had not left her chamber, and some part of Brienne still waited to wake from this absurd dream.

It was all wrong. Sansa had been born to live the life of a noble lady, to follow the path she had always dreamed of. Yet now it was her cousin who was shamed, hidden away in her chambers from a world that mocked and jeered at her.

Brienne spent much of her time in that room with Sansa as well, keeping her cousin company as she went about her sewing. Sansa had wept bitter tears all through that first, awful night—the one that ought to have been her wedding night—but had quieted since then.

As Brienne sat on the end of Sansa’s bed, she thought her cousin not in the mood to speak at all when Sansa broke the silence.

“I told myself that Joffrey would never do this to me out of cruelty, that he must have been deceived,” Sansa said. It was the first time she had spoken the prince’s name since the wedding had gone awry. “But I think of it, and I cannot forgive him,” she added softly.

“Men can be foolish and cruel at once,” Brienne said. “You need not forgive him, no matter the reason he’s spread this lie.”

“I could fling myself from a tower, like Ashara Dayne,” Sansa mused. “They always sing sweet songs of the ladies who fling themselves from towers. Even Lady Ashara had been soiled in some of the stories, before she jumped. I thought it was so sad and romantic.”

“Do not speak of such things,” Brienne said firmly.

“I do not mean it, cousin,” Sansa said with a sad smile. “But I think I understand it now. Virtuous or dead. We haven’t another choice, have we?”

Brienne struggled to find an answer, but Sansa did not wait for her response.

“Perhaps I could pretend to die, though—I would have it that way, rather than marry Lord Baelish. Would you help me to convince everyone? We could trick them all and take a ship to Braavos after.”

“You will run nowhere,” Brienne said. “And you will never marry Lord Baelish. He was a fool to suggest it. We will have your name restored here in Winterfell, as befits the daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn.”

“Lord Baelish loved my mother, didn’t he?” Sansa asked, looking down at a strand of auburn hair she twirled between her fingers. “That’s why he hates father.”

Brienne hesitated. It was an old story, one that must have made its way to Sansa somehow.

“He and your mother were friends at Riverrun, as I’m sure she’s told you,” she said. “He was the only one who ever felt anything more than that.”

“And he tried to duel my Uncle Brandon for her hand, before he died and she was betrothed to father,” Sansa said.

“He did.”

“And now he wants to marry _me,_” Sansa said. “And he still calls himself my mother’s friend. What an awful thing to do to a friend, to tell lies to disgrace her daughter. And Marillion, he does not even know me!” Brienne could see her cousin was becoming upset again, her words tumbling out faster. “He smiled at me as he sang ‘Seasons of my Love,’ the verse about the maid with sunset in her hair…”

“We will prove your innocence, cousin,” Brienne pressed.

“But none will listen to me,” Sansa said, flickering her gaze to the ground. “The entire court hates me now—everyone does.”

“I will never turn my back on you—none in this family will.” Brienne bit her lip, wondering if she should speak the next words. “Lord Jaime will vouch for you, as well.”

“Lord Jaime?” Sansa asked, her eyes widening for a moment. “It is good of him to do that for you.”

“He is doing what is right,” Brienne said. She wondered what Jaime was doing now, if there was truly anything he could do for Sansa at all. If not, she knew what she must do, though Sansa did not need to know of that just yet.

Her cousin granted her the smallest smile, almost mischievous. “I did not know you thought him capable of that.”

“I know I have spoken harshly of him,” Brienne said. “As I have behaved harshly towards him. But I fear… I fear I have wronged him.”

Sansa nodded knowingly.

“Do you love him?” She asked.

“Love?” Brienne asked, taken aback.

“Just because no man will want to marry me for love does not mean it has to be the same for you,” Sansa said, her eyes genuinely curious. “Do you really loathe the idea so much?”

_No,_ she might have said._ I didn’t always, at least._ Did she still? Or perhaps,_ I didn’t reject all of my betrothals. The first boy died when we were only children, and the second refused to marry a creature such as me. _

A knock on the chamber door spared her from answering.

“It’s me,” Jeyne’s voice called out._ “_Lady Brienne,” she said as she pushed the door open. “Lord Jaime has asked for you.”

A smile played at the edges of Sansa’s lips again. “Well, Brienne,” she said, “You mustn’t keep him waiting when he has shown us such kindness.”

“Of course,” she rose, diverting her gaze from both of the girls’ faces. So she not had been spared after all.

* * *

“Lady Brienne,” Jaime stood as she approached him. “How fares your cousin?”

“Not well,” Brienne shook her head. “Confined to her chambers, more or less. We think it is best to keep her from Robert and the queen as this settles.”

“I would agree,” Jaime said. “And how do you fare, my lady?”

Brienne hesitated. Fine, she wanted to say. _Should _say—it was Sansa who had been betrayed and humiliated, Sansa who she should focus her attention on now. But Jaime had asked of her own well-being. It was not a question she fielded often, not when she had spent so many years trying to prove herself dauntless, unbreakable. She needed no defending; she was proud of it. It was ridiculous, then, that she began to feel tears sting at the back of her eyes. _No, _she told herself. _No. _She would not cry. She forced herself to fix her gaze on Jaime’s, to refrain from looking at the ground.

“I am fine,” the words found their way to her lips at last.

Jaime looked unconvinced, his green eyes regarding her in a way that made her feel naked. She hoped her face did not betray the thought, a flush threatening to creep up her neck.

“Why have you asked me here?” she inquired, eager to change the subject. “Sansa… have you found a way to help her?”

“I am afraid not, my lady.”

“Then what did you call me here for?” she asked quietly.

“Am I not permitted to ask after my Lady of Tarth?” he raised an eyebrow. Jaime gave a sigh when she did not answer.

“Come here, wench,” he said. She must have done as he bid her, for she found herself pressed against him the next moment, his heart beating steady against her chest, where her own fluttered tumultuously. She wondered what it would be like to allow the tears to fall, to let Jaime hold her and promise to make her sorrows go away. It was mad enough that he wanted to. But she could not allow herself that. And what did it matter, if he did love her, when his house had made an enemy of her family, and she was about to make matters all the worse?

She gave herself one more moment there before she raised her head from his shoulder. She thought of Sansa, pale and hidden away, and took a small step back.

“I have to fix this, Jaime,” she said, her voice threatening to crack. “I have to."

“I swore to you—” he began before cutting himself off. “Brienne,” he tried again. “I disgraced you once and I am sure I have been undoubtedly cruel countless times. Let me keep this one vow to you.”

“Jaime, I am grateful that you tried,” she said. “But I cannot wait forever. The longer I allow this foul rumor to spread, the harder it will be for people to entangle it from their minds. I told you what I meant to do, and now I must honor my own vows.”

She looked down for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “I will challenge Joffrey on the morrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for bearing with me during this long gap between updates! I was so heartened by the lovely responses to Chapter 5 and was looking forward to sharing this next chapter with you all soon, but unfortunately a few real-life matters made it difficult to find the time and energy to write. But, I do have the remainder of this story outlined and every intention to finish. 
> 
> That said, you may have noticed that I updated the chapter count to show that if all goes as planned there will be 8 chapters total! I'm excited to wrap up the last quarter of this story and hope you all enjoy it as well.


	7. Chapter 7

Brienne found the prince drinking with one of the queen’s men, Lord Osmund Kettleblack, looking—and sounding—as if he had not a care in the world. Brienne could hear the prince’s laughter before she laid eyes on him, though his tone soured by the time she approached.

“Lady Sansa misbehaves herself and _we _are the ones made to suffer this dull place even longer,” Joffrey sighed to Lord Osmund. “My father takes his time to be gentle with old Lord Stark, but he’ll see before long that she’s put in her place. Then we can leave, and my grandfather will find a better match.”

Brienne’s knuckles went white as she gripped the pommel of her sword. She cleared her throat.

“Prince Joffrey,” she called out.

The prince and Lord Osmund turned to face her before Kettleblack glanced to Joffrey, perplexed.

“Lady Sansa’s bodyguard,” Joffrey told him dismissively, turning back to Brienne. “That is what you are, isn’t it? Or is that just what the Starks have you do to give you some sense of purpose around here?”

“That’s what they have you wear a sword for, then?” Lord Osmund asked Brienne. He seemed to find the idea quite amusing. The man was little more than a bodyguard to Joffrey himself, Brienne might have pointed out, but she bit back her tongue—she had more important issues to address.

“Prince Joffrey,” she said again, ignoring them. “I am here on behalf of Lady Sansa, who you have slandered in her own home.” She unsheathed her blade and watched the prince’s eyes follow the gleam of steel as it slipped free from its scabbard.

“Winterfell has no place for cowards and liars,” she said. “If you truly stand by these lies, then draw your sword against mine.”

Joffrey and Lord Osmund stared at her for a moment before the prince guffawed, though Brienne could see in his eyes that the boy was already nervous. “Have you lost your mind?” he demanded.

“A poor jest, my prince,” Lord Osmund assured Joffrey.

“Draw your sword,” Brienne repeated. “I’ll have you pay in blood for how you wronged my cousin.”

“This is absurd,” Joffrey declared. “I would not strike down a woman.”

“Your slander already has,” Brienne said. “_Draw __your sword. _Or are you too craven?_”_

The prince fidgeted, his mouth forming words and then stopping. He was truly afraid now_. __He knows I am serious, _Brienne saw, _and he is__ dumbfounded as to where to turn next_.

“My lady,” Lord Osmund interjected, as if he thought formalities could smooth this over now. “You cannot expect—”

“Prince Joffrey, I can see I’ve taken you greatly by surprise,” Brienne said, ignoring his companion. “I will grant you until sundown to accept my challenge. Otherwise, let the entire court see that you are too much of a coward to stand by your own words. Or too much of a coward to stand against a woman, as you say. I’d imagine your men will say both. Consider it carefully.”

The prince began to stutter out half-formed commands—whether they were directed at her or at Lord Osmund, Brienne could not say, though she thought she caught sputtered threats of how his mother would hear. _Let her_, Brienne thought as she slid her blade back into its sheath. Let Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon and every vile member of the court who had turned on Sansa know her accuser’s cowardice. Whichever way Joffrey answered, all would see the truth soon.

She felt lighter than she had in days as she turned from the prince and Lord Osmund, almost rapturous —_almost._ Buried deep in her mind, the thought of Jaime pleading that she not meddle into these affairs nagged at her thoughts. Perhaps he did care about his family too much to allow her this, she thought with vague dismay_. _She’d warn him, if she could find him, or perhaps Tyrion if not. She supposed she could do that much for Jaime, no matter his reason for trying to stop all of this. She quieted the uneasy thoughts as best as she could and walked away. There were matters to attend to before dusk's approach.

* * *

Sansa made her way down the corridor, keeping the hood of her cloak over her head and saying a silent prayer that she was not acting a fool. But before long, she had crossed the grounds and found Jory Cassel leaning against the wall outside the room where they held Marillion.

Sansa took a deep breath. If she was wrong, if this did not work, she did not know what she would do next.

“Jory,” Sansa said, lowering her hood as she approached the captain of Winterfell’s guards. Jory’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw her approach, but she carried on speaking. “I would have a word with the singer.”

Jory looked perplexed. “My lady, what are you doing here?” he asked. “And moreover, what do you want with this singer? I assure you, my men and I are questioning him to the best of our abilities. You need not concern yourself with his like.”

“It is most important that I speak with him,” Sansa said. “I have questions of my own for Marillion.”

The man hesitated a moment longer. “Very well, my lady,” he said at last, opening the door to the locked room. “Shall I accompany you?”

Sansa shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “I will call for you if I have the need.”

The singer raised an eyebrow at her as she stepped through the door. “Lady Sansa?” he asked, seemingly even more confused even than Jory.

“Marillion,” she said curtly. “You know why I am here. You have ruined my reputation, and you have ruined my marriage prospects.”

“My lady,” the singer said with boredom, “I am sorry you must suffer this humiliation now, but—“

“I did not come here for more of your lies,” Sansa said firmly, before lowering her voice. “I came here to warn you…” She collected herself, praying she had this right. “To warn you of Lord Baelish.”

The singer narrowed his eyes at her. Sansa tried to read his face, but other than that slight change in expression, he kept his face impressively unphased.

“And why should I be wary of Lord Baelish?” Marillion asked. “This man means little to me.”

“He brought you here, didn’t he?” Sansa asked. “He hired you into the court.”

Marillion shrugged. “That is how a singer makes a living for himself, my lady.”

“He means to marry me.”

Marillion smiled coldly. “Lucky man. You are a pretty one, if not poorly behaved.”

“What did Lord Baelish promise you?” Sansa asked. “Gold? A permanent position at the court?” She gestured towards the heavy door behind her. “Say whatever you will. It is only us, and you’ve seen to it that I’m notoriously false.”

“There was gold, yes,” Marillion admitted. “But no position at the court. Lord Baelish also promised me a sweeter award than gold,” his mouth twisted into an ugly smile, “one that I would not be nearly close enough to in King’s Landing.”

His eyes were so hungry as he gazed upon her. Sansa gulped, taking a small step backwards before forcing herself to remain where she stood even as the singer smirked.

“You have trusted a false friend,” Sansa said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Look how he spurns not just me, but my mother as well, who was like a sister to him as a child!”

“I am most sorry my lady,” Marillion said glibly. “But it is of no matter to me now.”

“You are wrong,” Sansa said. “It is most important to you. Lord Baelish will never take you to the Vale. What good would that do him? He’ll leave you here to rot in this cell and run off to the mountains on his own.”

“And what reason would I have to keep his secrets, if he did that?” Marillion asked.

“Your secrets will mean little once Lord Baelish has swept me away to the Vale,” Sansa insisted. “But you will remain here to face justice, unless you do as I say.”

“And what is that?” Marillion tried to look nonchalant, but Sansa could see his brow furrowed uneasily.

“Tell the truth before the court,” Sansa said. “I command you. Tell it before I must vouch for my own innocence, and I will see that you are allowed to return to King’s Landing once this is over.”

Marillion granted Sansa no answer. Behind her, the door creaked open.

“My lady?” Jory Cassel asked uneasily. She knew that he misliked leaving her alone with this man. “Are you finished here?”

She glanced one more time at Marillion, though he gave nothing else away. He won’t just yet, Sansa thought.

“Yes, Jory,” she said, turning to follow the guard out of the room. “But do speak with Marillion again later,” she said as he closed the door behind them. “I’ve given him much to think on.”

* * *

“Your talk with Cersei went about as well as I imagined?” Tyrion asked as he approached Jaime in the corridor.

Jaime turned at the sound of his brother’s voice. “Has she said something to you?”

“Gods, no,” Tyrion laughed. “As if she tells me anything. She didn’t need to. I can tell by the way that you gaze out that window and sulk.”

Jaime stopped himself from grumbling out that he hadn’t been _sulking. _He’d been stood before the window, true, but he was… what exactly had he been doing? Nothing useful, he conceded to himself. He seemed to be making a habit out of that.

Tyrion took his silence as further confirmation of his claim. “Well then, has your lady gone ahead and challenged the boy? Last I heard he and all his lackeys were still intact, so I’d imagine there hasn’t been a duel yet.”

“No, not yet,” Jaime said. “As for whether she’s challenged him, we’ll find out soon enough,” he added with exasperation, marveling at how he had allowed this situation to spin so far out of his control.

“Jaime!” their sister’s voice cut through the hall.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “My wager is she has,” he said as Cersei’s footsteps grew louder. She came into view a moment later, her eyes all wildfire even before she shot a scornful glance towards Tyrion.

“Jaime,” she hissed. “I must talk to you alone.”

“What is so important that you cannot speak it in my presence, sweet sister?” Tyrion asked.

“Leave!” she nearly shouted. _Brienne __surely had__ done it, then._ Though Cersei bore her youngest brother no love, she was not always so forthright in her aggression.

Tyrion shrugged. “I can assure you I want no part in this,” he said, though the look of concern that he directed towards Jaime betrayed his nonchalance.

His brother’s questioning gaze lingered as Cersei led Jaime down the corridor, beyond any of the chambers that the Starks or their guests had used throughout the visit. She at last opened one of the doors to find a haphazardly organized cupboard, then gave a shake of her head and went on to the next doorway, which opened to a deserted sitting room. Her eyes darted about for any unwanted audiences in the hallways before deeming it safe to speak.

“Tell me you did not know,” she demanded as she shut the door behind her.

“It would help if you told me what you’re talking about,” Jaime said, though he had guessed his sister’s next words long before she spoke.

“She’s challenged him to a duel,” Cersei hissed. “_Lady Brienne_. Gods, you did know, didn’t you?”

Jaime sighed. “I tried to stop her.”

“You should have come to me at once,” Cersei said. “I will not allow this, of course, but if I’d only had time, I would...”

“You would what, Cersei?” Jaime asked. “Lady Brienne has the right. You need not sound so shocked Joffrey is facing the consequences of his actions, for once in his life. Even if I were able to dissuade Lady Brienne, it would only be so that she does not have to dirty her hands in our family's affairs. But this foolishness with Sansa Stark must come to an end some other way.”

“She’ll pay dearly for this,” Cersei pressed on as if he had not spoken. “Her and Lord Selwyn. Father will see to it.”

“Cersei, it need not come to that,” Jaime said. “Tell Joffrey to rescind his accusation, and she will not raise her sword against his. Lady Brienne is a woman of honor. She will accept his surrender.”

“Surrender?” Cersei looked at him as though he were disturbed. “A Lannister will not be cowed before that wretch of a woman.”

“I’d say he already has been, give how he nearly pissed himself over Brienne’s mere admonishment at the wedding,” Jaime said. “If he does not want to face her—and believe me, he does not—he will retract his accusation.”

Cersei shook her head. “Joffrey will not be cowed before her, but nor will he lower himself to this nonsense,” she said. “He is her prince! If there must be a duel, I will have one of my men fight in Joffrey’s stead. Lord Osmund will do.”

“Lady Brienne could take on seven of Lord Osmund,” Jaime laughed. “She is Lord Stark’s finest sword, and it is a pity that her skills are hidden away here in the North. Trust me when I say that it is in the best favor of both you and Joffrey that he rescind his accusation.”

“Lady Brienne will rescind hers,” Cersei’s eyes flashed as she softened her voice. “It would be a shame if some unfortunate fate were to befall Lord Selwyn’s only child and heir, would it not?”

“Do not speak of such nonsense, Cersei.”

“I can do it, you do know,” Cersei said. “What would you prefer, some unlucky accident? Or I can have father determine that Lord Selwyn is no fit ruler for that island of theirs. Our Robert is so weak-willed, he’ll—”

“That is enough,” Jaime said. Cersei froze, and for a moment, the entire room was cloaked in silence. “I will take Lady Brienne’s place,” he said.

His sister looked confused. “You—”

“I’ll challenge Joffrey,” Jaime said. “His sword against mine, and Lady Sansa’s honor at stake. This rift with the Starks must end, and Lady Brienne needs nothing to do with this absurdity.”

Cersei blinked at him, uncomprehending.

“Have you gone mad?” she asked as his words sunk in. “You cannot stand against your own blood.”

“No, you would not allow that,” Jaime said. “As you’ve already made so clear. I’ll stand against any man you place in Joffrey’s stead, though. It makes no difference to me. I have no qualms about spilling Kettleblack blood. Or send Joffrey out there, and I will humiliate him into yielding—I doubt that it will take much to sway our valiant son into submission.”

Cersei looked at him as if she were waiting to be awoken up from some nightmare.

“Jaime,” she said, sounding afraid now. “I worry for you. Please...” she trailed off, and for a moment she looked so despondent that he wondered if she might see the sense in dissuading Joffrey after all. She took a step closer to him.

“I know you don’t mean this,” she said softly, leaning into him, placing a hand on his thigh. “We can fix this—you and I, together. The way it was always meant to be. You only need to stop this folly.” She moved her hand to the laces of his breeches.

Jaime recoiled from her.

“Cersei, what are you doing?” he asked, anger bubbling up in his chest.

She hushed him. “Take me here,” she said. “None will find us. Oh, you don’t know how it’s pained me, keeping you at a distance. How I’ve wanted for you. We’ll fix this, Jaime.”

Jaime closed his eyes, his heart pounding. It was all so familiar. Cersei’s pain, Cersei’s want. How many times had she come to him like this, _wanting _from him? For a moment, he felt as if he might be ill. Then, he opened his eyes.

“Enough, Cersei,” he said, pushing her hand away. “I will not. Do not ask me again. I meant what I said, and I intend to stay true to my word.”

Cersei took a step back from him.

“So this is where your allegiances lie,” she said, all of the softness vanished from her voice. “What did that pitiful creature do to you? Did she get the better of you sparring again and knock you in the head?” She did not wait for an answer. “You’ve made your choice, brother. Do not come to me or father for help when you regret it.”

Cersei shook her head and stormed out of the room. Jaime watched her blond curls bouncing as she strode, feeling oddly hazy as she faded out of vision. He let himself linger in that daze for a moment before stepped out of the empty chamber with no ideas as to where to go next.

He did not have long to think on it before the closet door beside the room gave a painfully long creak and swung slowly out towards him. Jaime watched with wide eyes as, sheepishly, Brienne of Tarth emerged from the previously empty cupboard and shut the door behind her.

“Lady Brienne,” Jaime said, his throat dry. _Seven hells, what is she doing here?_

“I was looking for you, or Lord Tyrion… he said you’d gone in this direction,” Brienne stammered out, her face pale and her eyes huge. “He was worried about you. And when I heard your sister’s voice yelling from that room… I-I did not come after you to eavesdrop, but I thought…” A long silence hung between them. _Gods, how much of that did she hear?_

“The prince,” she said at last. “He is your...”

Enough, it seemed. Of course.

Jaime looked about the long, empty corridor. “Yes,” he said softly, fixing his gaze on hers. _Let her know the truth. _“He is. As Cersei was my lover.”

Brienne closed her eyes for a moment and nodded, her expression unreadable.

“That was very senseless of you,” she said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Which part of it?” Jaime asked.

“Challenging the prince to a duel, for a start,” Brienne said, beginning to sound a bit indignant. “Or Lord Osmund, in all likelihood. Jaime, you cannot think I’m incapable of defending myself. And you...” she struggled to find her next words.

“I know you are capable as well as I know that I have about the same level of skill with my left hand as a boy given his first sword,” Jaime said. “You needn’t worry. I’m well aware that I’m quite useless against Kettleblack.” He gave a small wave of his gilded hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How could it not matter?” Brienne asked.

“She threatened you, Brienne!” Jaime said. “You and your father. What else was I supposed to do?” He rubbed his brow and took a deep breath before he continued. “I can fight just as well with my left as I can with my right. Or that’s what everyone says of me, at least—is it not?”

Brienne gave a small nod, still eyeing him with suspicion.

“It’s true as far as Cersei knows as well. Perhaps she’s had her doubts. But when it comes down to my sword against Kettleblack’s—or, gods forbid, if she were to force me to make a show of disarming Joffrey—I assure you that she will not take that chance. There will be no duel. Joffrey will concede, Sansa’s name will be cleared, and you need not put your own well-being on the line—or your father’s, for that matter.”

Brienne did not seem quite convinced. “Jaime, if she doesn’t...”

“Trust me, Brienne,” Jaime said. “Just this once, if you will not contemplate it again.”

She hesitated another moment. “After all she has been to you,” Brienne began uncertainly, “why stand against your sister now?”

“Why now, when I should have years ago?” Jaime laughed bitterly. “It is over, Brienne,” he said, the words tumbling out of him now. “I don’t want her.”

She chewed her lip for a moment before she spoke. “What do you want?” she asked again. Her eyes pleaded for the truth this time, but there was something strange in them as well, something he did not often see Brienne express—was this what fear looked like on her?

He reached his left hand upwards to cup her face, his thumb grazing along her cheek and fingers tangling loosely into her hair. His right twitched uselessly by his side when gently, looking as if she did not quite believe it herself, she guided his golden hand around her waist. He took in her wide blue eyes a moment longer, the freckles scattered across her face, her thick lips, slightly parted to reveal her crooked teeth, and he kissed her.

She met him softly at first, stiff and awkward for a moment before relaxing into his touch. Then it was like a dam breaking, her body pressed against his as she parted her lips to let his tongue in. He kissed her until they were both breathless, until she breathed his name against his neck when he moved to press his lips along her jawline—perhaps too eagerly, he was vaguely aware, but Brienne did not seem to take notice or care.

But then, it seemed neither of them were capable of taking notice of much else just then, Jaime realized too late.

“My lady! My lady, you must come quickly!” Jeyne Poole came running down the corridor, stopping quickly as she saw Jaime’s face still fixed at the crook of Brienne’s neck.

“Oh!” Jeyne exclaimed, her eyes widening. “Lady Brienne! And Lord Jaime!” The girl fumbled about for her next words. “I meant not to… interrupt you. Lord Tyrion said you had wandered down this way…”

_Tyrion. _Jaime would need to have a word with him later. But just then, he felt giddy enough that he would have kissed Brienne before the entire court.

“You are excused, Jeyne,” Jaime grinned. “You only caught Brienne and I trying at a new dance. She’s quite good at these things, you do know.”

Brienne, despite the deep red shade that had overtaken her face, made an admirable effort to act as if Jeyne had not caught them looking as if Jaime might take her right there in the corridor.

“What is it, Jeyne?” Brienne pressed, doing her best to ignore him. The girl followed suit.

“You must come at once!” she exclaimed. “My Lady Sansa has been proven innocent!”

Brienne looked at Jaime, disbelieving. “_What?” _she asked.

“Lord Baelish is to blame, and the singer Marillion is a partner to his scheme!” Jeyne said breathlessly. “Marillion has confessed, and Lord Baelish has fled back to the Vale—and all can see Lady Sansa was intended to be the victim of their lies!”

A laugh escaped Jaime’s lips as he met Brienne’s eyes again, and he could have kissed her again—would have, were Brienne not already blushing furiously at Jeyne’s audience. But Jeyne’s declaration seemed to make her forget that, and Brienne looked ready to dash off after the girl already, though she first took Jaime’s good hand in hers and gave it a soft squeeze.

_One impossibility after another today, _it seemed_. And little time to ponder it, though that was likely for the best._ He nodded, and together they followed Sansa’s companion.

* * *

“He’s confessed, the little rat!” Arya declared triumphantly as Jaime and Brienne hurried into the Great Hall, where a small but lively audience had already gathered before Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard—mostly composed of the Winterfell household, save for Tyrion.

“Arya!” Sansa said. “Keep your voice down,” she cautioned, though she could not suppress a smile herself.

“_Sansa!” _Brienne exclaimed, rushing to her cousin’s side. “It’s true then?”

Sansa nodded, and Brienne wrapped the girl in a fierce embrace—an unusual side to see Brienne present before so many, Jaime thought, though he found it was not so shocking an image now. Everything about Brienne was fierce—her will, her rage, her love—no matter how often she hid behind a stoic demeanor or demure dismissal of her own self.

“You cannot know how relieved I am,” Brienne said. “I was ready to do whatever was necessary to clear your name. But you must tell me how this all has happened.”

“It was your cousin’s doing,” Lord Tyrion piped up. “The lady has a mind for schemes.”

Sansa looked at her feet, her face reddening, though her smile did not fade. “I only had a suspicion,” she said. “I thought of it when I was talking with you in my chamber about Lord Baelish’s fondness for my mother, and how he’d tried to marry her all those years ago. If I was wrong, I would have looked an even greater fool!”

“She had the singer confess to her that Lord Baelish had promised him gold and a post at the Vale, with Lady Sansa’s… companionship, from time to time, once they were married,” Tyrion said. Jaime watched Brienne fight back a wince.

“I convinced him that it was in his best fortune to tell the truth, before Lord Baelish could go back on his promises,” Sansa went on. “With how terribly he planned to betray my mother to have me, I would not put it past him.”

“Is that really it, then?” Brienne asked. “What is to happen to Lord Baelish and Marillion?”

“Jory and the guards will bring the singer forth to the hall in just a moment,” Lord Stark said, “and he will give his confession again—before the entire court, this time." He pressed his lips into a tight line. "The singer will not escape justice, though we will offer him some concession, if that is what my daughter has promised in return for his confession. And we will send men after Lord Baelish, before he’s barricaded himself away in the Vale.”

Tyrion made his way over to Jaime as more crowded into the Great Hall. “Well,” his brother said. “I assume we need no duels now. Dare I ask what else, exactly, this development entails?”

There was much that Jaime would still need to face soon enough, he knew. In the exuberance that had engulfed the hall, none seemed to have taken much notice of his arrival with Brienne. But at the hall’s entrance, Cersei and Robert wandered in, a seemingly baffled entourage trailing behind them. And there, at the center of the crowd and separated from him by the incoming throngs of people, was Brienne, who granted him a small, fleeting smile before looking away—somehow, that felt to be the only thing that mattered. Jaime allowed himself to smile for a moment, even if she was no longer looking. Tyrion raised an eyebrow as his question went unanswered.

“Later,” Jaime promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! What can I say except thank you all again for reading after a wait. I hope you’re all safe and well in our crazy world 💜💜💜


	8. Chapter 8

The singer’s tale proved an all the more lively source of gossip at Winterfell in the end.

Marillion had confessed he’d bedded a serving girl from the court—a maid who only saw a handsome singer and didn’t realize she’d been entangled in a scheme. After that, it had been easy for Lord Baelish to lure the prince to Sansa’s window and convince him that his intended was unfaithful.

And so Joffrey had been tricked into the accusation, all agreed. _Though none had forced him to humiliate Sansa at her own wedding, _Brienne thought bitterly, _or to believe her accusers so eagerly_. She consoled herself that there had at least been no talk of reforging the match; all that Winterfell must endure now was a final round of feasting and dancing—this time to reaffirm the friendship between the houses Stark and Baratheon. _You have weathered __far __worse, _Brienne told herself. Most importantly, Sansa seemed in good spirits as she waited for the evening to begin.

But as Brienne sat in her chambers with her cousin, she found herself more troubled.

“Sansa,” Brienne said uncertainly, staring down at the piece of parchment before her. “Do you not think this is rather… excessive?”

“It’s unquestionably romantic,” Sansa assured her. “And very fashionable in the south just now. Lord Jaime is already mad for you, and when he sees your feelings written out this way before his own eyes, he’ll be absolutely beside himself.”

Brienne studied the paper again—blank for now, but Sansa insisted she fill it with a _sonnet. _Brienne had never had much of a mind for poetry herself, but her cousin swore that she would help her get the words right. She had agreed reluctantly—the alternative was _talking _to Jaime, she supposed, which she could not imagine accomplishing without choking on her own tongue—but her regret was already intensifying.

Brienne put her quill down. “Cousin, I am grateful for your offer,” she said. “But I do not think this is going to work.”

“Poetry really isn’t so hard as most people think!” Sansa began. “You just—”

Brienne shook her head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what could it be?” Sansa asked, her face turning to a frown. “Something else troubles you. Is it that Jeyne caught you with Lord Jaime? She won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about—aside from me, of course, but that doesn’t count.

“Anyhow, there’s nothing wrong with any of that,” Sansa went on breezily when Brienne remained silent. “Lord Jaime _should_ love his lady without shame.”

“Sansa,” Brienne cautioned, more sharply than she had intended. “I am not his lady.”

“Cousin!” Sansa rolled her eyes. “Is that what you’re so concerned about—that he does not love you? You told me yourself he would have fought for you, and Jeyne said how he kissed you as if the rest of the world had disappeared… oh, it’s better than the songs,” she sighed. “You must trust me, if you will not trust yourself.”

Brienne shook her head. Of course Sansa fancied this all a song. But she would not allow her cousin’s romanticism, no matter how well-intentioned, to cloud her own mind as well.

“Sansa, it all happened so quickly…” she trailed off. _H__e could not have been thinking. _Especially with the conversation that had just transpired between him and his sister, and her own intrusion. _“_And his family… Jaime Lannister would not simply turn on them.” Certainly never for one such as her, no matter what Sansa had heard from Jeyne—or even from Lord Tyrion, in that conversation that she had spied upon a thousand years ago, or so it felt. Not for Brienne the Beauty, the wayward daughter of the Evenstar cast far from home, dancing endlessly between ill-fitting fates.

“He already _has_ taken your side over theirs,” Sansa said. “Brienne, you’re so sensible when it comes to everything aside from these matters. You told me just days ago that you were wrong about him; what’s changed now that you can’t believe this?”

“Nothing has changed,” Brienne said. “I was wrong about him.”

“Then what is it?”

_Hyle and Ben and Edmund and Ronnet, _a voice whispered in the back of her mind_. _But Jaime was not like them—that much she could say with confidence. Was he like Renly, who had smiled at her out of some pitying, dutiful kindness? That comparison did not sit right with her either.

“He does not owe me anything,” Brienne said at last. “Nor would I ask anything else from him. He has done us a great kindness, and he has proven himself a man of honor. I will assume nothing else.”

“Honor!” Sansa exclaimed. “Not everything comes down to honor. You’d be so much happier, if you would only allow yourself to see that. I know men have been unkind to you in the past…” She hesitated a moment before starting on her next words. “I think I understand it better now, if only a little. In truth, I’m nervous about the feast tonight as well.”

Brienne frowned. “What troubles you?” she asked.

“I dreamed last night that I went and took my place at the table and everyone began to laugh and jeer once again, as if Marillion’s confession never mattered,” she said. “It’s silly, I know. But it stings even now when I think of what they all said of me.”

“That will not happen again,” Brienne said firmly.

“Nor will it happen to you again with Lord Jaime,” Sansa declared. Brienne sighed; _i__t is not the same._

“I was maybe too rigid, insisting on a sonnet,” Sansa said. “Just write honestly.”

Brienne hesitated again.

“Just try!” her cousin pressed. “The court will leave for King’s Landing soon, anyhow. And you need not even give it to him, if you write it and it feels wrong.”

Her stomach gave a small twist at the reminder of the upcoming departure. _Perhaps a letter. _She had written plenty of those in her life, if not for any comparable purpose. Brienne shook her head. There had been a certain ease in _knowing _that she was unwanted, much as it ached—an acceptance of sorts. It was safer to speak the old words to herself than it was to believe anything could change. _And__ why would it? _She sighed. _I will do it only so that Sansa can see this is a terrible idea._

“Fine,” she said, picking up the quill.

* * *

The second set of celebrations was not so grandiose as the welcoming feast and ball—even by Northern standards—though that was only to be expected, with the sudden nature of it all. But the estate had returned to its full volume, and there was wine and ale enough that none seemed to mind the haphazard arrangement.

Jaime had sat through the feast feeling an odd mixture of boredom and agitation. Much was as he’d anticipated: Cersei glowering next to Robert; Joffrey seated nearby, close to falling asleep; Brienne sipping at her goblet—water, Jaime was sure—looking decidedly as if she wished to be anywhere else. As the evening wore on, some excitement crept across the tables when people began to whisper of hearsay that Lord Baelish had been captured on his way back to the Vale. _That should please the wench, _Jaime thought with a smirk.

But Brienne had not met his eye throughout the feast, Jaime had realized with a twinge. And now that the dancing had begun, she was indeed nowhere to be found, as best as he could tell, even with none wearing masks this time.

“Are you looking for Lady Brienne, my lord?” a boy’s voice piped up as he surveyed the crowd. Jaime looked down to find Podrick Payne regarding him nervously.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “You know where she is?”

“The gardens, my lord,” Podrick said. “She left just as the music started up.”

“Ah,” Jaime nodded. “Of course she did.”

“Will you go after her?” Podrick asked.

“Shouldn’t a lad such as yourself be concerned with other things at the moment?” Jaime asked, giving the boy a small smile. “Go and have a dance—I’m sure Lady Sansa would oblige you if you ask.”

Podrick’s face reddened at the mere idea, and Jaime held back a laugh. But the suggestion did its job—the page looked at his feet and mumbled something before scurrying off without further inquiry. _He’ll thank me for it, anyhow. _With Podrick gone, Jaime made his way out of the crowded hall, breathing a sigh of relief when he at last found himself in the comparatively deserted corridor.

“Lord Jaime!” a high voice called out from behind him. _Seven hells, what could this possibly be about now? _And just as he thought he’d made his escape.

He turned around to find the perplexing sight of Sansa Stark hurrying towards him as best she could in her gown, plucking her skirts up off the ground in her hurry. Along with the fabric, something else was gripped tight in one of her hands.

“Lady Sansa?” Jaime asked, bemused.

She stopped before him and smoothed out her dress as she took a moment to compose herself. “Here,” she said at last, still slightly out of breath as she handed him a piece of parchment, carefully folded but slightly crumpled now.

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand before he could ask her what she had given him, or why it was so important that she needed to dash off to gods know where and back to fetch it.

“Brienne is just too good, isn’t she?” the girl asked coyly. “So honest. Well, I believe I have finally caught her in a lie! Read this before her and you’ll see.”

“Pardons, my lady,” Jaime said, his bewilderment growing by the second, “but I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

“Were you not headed off to the gardens already?” she asked innocently. “Do not let me interrupt you any further this evening, my lord.”

He needed no more urging; whatever game Lady Sansa was playing was of no interest to him. Shoving the note into his pocket, he turned down the corridor before anyone else could think to bother him.

* * *

He found Brienne with her back facing him, seemingly engrossed in the row of rosebushes in bloom before her.

“You were wise to leave that place,” Jaime said as he approached her. She stiffened but did not turn around. “I’ve had enough of it myself. Do you find the roses are better company?”

“I hate roses,” Brienne said flatly. He would have laughed for how banal she always made such peculiarities sound, but he stopped himself; something was amiss with her.

“What did they do to offend you so?” he asked.

“A betrothal,” Brienne said distantly. “Long ago. It does not matter now.”

Jaime felt something clench in his stomach, though he knew not what she spoke of.

He took a step closer and placed his good hand on her arm when she did not flinch away. “Why don’t we leave this place, then?” he asked as she turned to face him.

“And go where?” she pondered, unenthused. “Back to the ball?

“It is rather dreadful in there, isn’t it?” Jaime asked. “No masks this time, at least. I’ve had enough deception for a long while. But no, not the ball. Lord Stark’s armory?” he offered instead. “I haven’t had so thrilling a dance as our last in a long while, though I fear I have a long way to go before you can say the same of me.”

That seemed to capture her interest more, but she hesitated still. “You did not come here to ask me to Lord Stark’s armory,” she said. “What would you have of me, Jaime?”

“I told you. I’ve had my fill of trickery and lies,” he said. “All these bloody feasts and _that _sort of dancing as well,” he said, gesturing back towards the estate. “I would have you, and only you.”

For a long, maddening moment, she was quiet.

“Brienne—”

“You don’t mean that,” she interjected.

Jaime stared. “What else could I possibly mean?” he asked.

“I know you were upset with your sister, and with your father and all his plans as well, and Jeyne had just brought the news about Sansa,” Brienne said. “I would not expect you to go on and spurn your family now. And I… It’s all right,” she added hastily. “I know you meant nothing else by any of it.”

“Why, I should thank you for informing me of my intentions,” Jaime said dryly. “They were lost on me. Brienne, you doubt me still?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, that is not what I meant.”

“Tell me true then, wench,” he said. He had to hear her say it, either way. “You do not love me?”

She was quiet before speaking again. “You have done a great service for the Starks, and for my own house,” Brienne said slowly. “I do care for you. You have been… better to me than I could ask, and true to your word.”

But he had been wrong. He let the realization wash over him—how stupidly he had behaved, and how obvious it felt now. He had taken Brienne by surprise in the corridor, when she had fallen into his kiss. She was overcome by the news of Sansa’s exoneration when she ran off alongside him to the Great Hall_; _gods, she even knew about his past with Cersei. Any newfound affection for him had wilted with that, once she had a moment to think on it. And all the while, he had been too blind to see the truth of it.

“Very well then, my lady,” he said, an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air as the words died. “I hope to spar again,” he added when the quiet became unbearable, “though I know not when I will see you next.”

“Yes,” Brienne said, looking at her feet. “Yes, of course.” _But not tonight_, he knew_. _That was beyond salvage. For another agonized moment, only the gentle breeze and the night’s chirping filled the air.

“Though,” he spoke the next words before he could think on them too deeply, “it appears my brother has been deceived at my expense. Forgive me Brienne, but I would not have acted half so much a fool had Tyrion not sworn that your cousin insisted you were mad for me.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. “Sansa said you wallowed over me incessantly!” she blurted out in return, so suddenly that Jaime was taken aback himself. She lowered her voice as she continued. “And Jeyne, and even Arya. I heard them speak of it when I was walking in the gardens, how your brother had told them. I knew it was some trickery,” she added hurriedly. “I-I never thought…”

“_Gods,_” Jaime shook his head as it all sunk in. The conveniently overheard conversations, Tyrion’s insistence that he find a woman besides Cersei, Brienne’s turn in behavior towards him, even Podrick’s newly professed interest in leading him to Brienne’s whereabouts that very evening. “As Tyrion and Podrick made the very same show while I hid away in the orchard.”

_So it had all been a game waged by his brother and Sansa Stark, and whoever else they could convince to play along_. It made sense, Jaime realized, cursing himself silently as he thought on it. Judging by Brienne’s flushed face, she had processed it as well.

“They’ve made great fools of us, haven’t they?” he said at last. From the beginning, it should have been telling enough that the story was better fit for one of Lady Sansa’s songs than reality.

Sansa… that strange encounter with her already felt like something he had dreamed, though it had passed not even an hour earlier. _Read this before her, _the girl had said, passing him the parchment. _The parchment. _That could only be another piece of this mad scheme, but he supposed there was little else to lose now.

“Although,” Jaime said, reaching into his pocket for the piece of paper. “I do wonder who wrote _this.” _He waggled the folded-up material in the air.

Brienne’s eyes widened in recognition; it was enough for him to smirk. “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

“Your cousin gave it to me,” Jaime said. “And what else was it that she said… it is written in your own hand, from what I seem to recall.” Sansa had not said quite as much, but by Brienne’s face, he knew the inkling to be correct.

Brienne stared, her lips parted slightly as though she were processing something still. “Is that what…” Slowly, she reached into her own pocket. “I haven’t had time to open it. Your brother gave this to me this evening, though he declined to tell me who he was playing messenger for. He told me that I might guess myself.” She unfolded and smoothed out the piece of parchment, flipping it around to face him so that he could see his own large, pitifully scrawled print.

Jaime regarded it for a moment. “Your admirer has painfully poor penmanship,” he observed.

“He does, doesn’t he?” Brienne said.

Jaime chuckled in spite of himself. “You never do give up without a fight,” he said incredulously, marveling at the absurdity and the perfect sense of it all. “Well, are you going to read it?” There was no point in putting it off now. “Go on.”

She held his gaze a moment longer before flipping the parchment back around, scanning over the poorly scribbled lines once, then again, her eyes huge all the while. Jaime closed his own eyes a moment and tried not to think too hard on whatever saccharine words he had committed to the paper—the one he had trusted was safely stored away in his chamber, after he’d surrendered to that mad suggestion.

“Jaime,” she said at last as she met his eyes again, blinking rapidly now. “This is…”

“Rather terrible, I know,” Jaime said. “Tyrion at first suggested I write a _sonnet, _if you would believe it, but I’ve at least spared you of that. But it is not dishonest, if nothing else can be said for it.”

He gave another wave of the parchment he procured. “I suspect I’ll find this more elegantly worded. May I, Lady Brienne?” She hesitated for a moment and nodded.

He read it slowly, once and then again, wondering if the words would disappear should he tear his eyes away. “You despaired this much that I am to return to King’s Landing?” he asked when he’d managed to free himself from the daze.

“I know you must leave soon still,” Brienne said. “It was a game by your brother and my cousin. We _were _fools.”

“So Sansa and my brother had their fun,” Jaime said. “How does that change anything? I meant all that I said.” He stopped for a minute and grimaced, gesturing to the note in Brienne’s hand. “And wrote. Did you not?”

“I did,” she whispered.

“Come with me, Brienne,” he said. “Away from King’s Landing. I will hold Casterly Rock if I have you by my side, as its lady. As my wife.”

“Jaime, I am no proper bride,” she said, flustered. “And what of your father, and Margaery Tyrell, and your…”

“I care not about proper,” Jaime said. “Must I say again that I do not want Cersei, or Margaery Tyrell, or any other woman in the kingdoms? I want you, wench. What was it that I wrote?” he tried recalling the words. “You defended your cousin well when the entire realm would have turned its back on her. You spoke against the crown prince before half the court and probably every lord of vague importance in the North—all six of them, perhaps. And the queen mother.” _It took my entire life to do that. _“You were magnificent. You _are._

“My father has spent years begging me to marry,” he went on. “And I will marry as I please. And if you must find some noble way to justify this, tell yourself that we are mending whatever rift remains between our kin,” he added, his heart racing. “What do you say, my lady?”

“I need no noble reason,” Brienne said softly, meeting his eyes. He thought back to that day in the orchard, wondering how he could have ever thought her gaze upon him cold. “I do love you, Jaime.”

“Is that a yes?”

“_Yes,_” she breathed, drawing him into a kiss this time. He grinned when they broke apart, suddenly feeling drunk on the night and the glimmer in her eyes.

“We’ll have to venture to King’s Landing from the Rock on occasion—I’m afraid I won’t be completely rid of my father, even once I’ve done as he’s always wanted,” he told her. “But I should like to see Tarth as well. I must see if the waters are really blue enough to justify your indignation over the time I called it a miserable rock in the middle of the Narrow Sea.”

A small laugh burst from her lips. “Yes, you must see it yourself to know.”

“And we must dance, until I am not such a dull match for you,” he said. “For now I fear you'll have to knock me into the dust every evening, but I would fall into your bed each night as well.”

“You’re very demanding tonight,” Brienne said, though she fought back a smile herself.

“Pardons, my lady,” Jaime said. “Demand something of me then, if you will. It’s only fair.”

Brienne shook her head. “I am not so needing.”

“Perhaps how I shall announce our betrothal,” he suggested. “Shall I burst into Winterfell now with you on my arm, calling for another ball to be held in your honor? No, we’ve already said that’s dreadful.” He thought again. “I suppose we could find some septon to sneak us away to whatever altar the North can offer. Or would you propose something else?”

Brienne looked off into the night for a moment before coming back to him. “None of that now," she said. "I would have you remain here, for just a moment longer.”

Jaime smiled._ An easy task. _“As my lady demands.”

He kissed her again, and the night erupted into a chorus grander than any ceremony while the stars burned above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to all of my lovely readers, and an extra special thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos at any point for this fic! I really can’t express how much it means to me that you all wanted to come along for the ride, and I hope you enjoyed this final installment. <3


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